Fast Falls the Eventide
by Kivrin
Summary: A thousand years since the Battle of Five Armies, the Dwarves of Middle Earth are a fading race. Subservient to Men, they scarcely remember the legends of Dwarven greatness, or the prayers of their ancestors. But things are stirring in Erelin, last city of the Dwarves, and a young Dwarf with memories of lives he has never lived is on a desperate hunt for what has been lost.
1. City of Sorrows

**NB: **

The Fourth Age begins in sunlight and hope - but we know it is the Age of Men. This is a contemplation of how things might have gone for some of the other races of Middle Earth, a thousand years after Thorin fell. It's not going to be a short story, or an undemanding one, but I hope the journey will be worth the cost.

If you've read any of my other work, you'll know that I update as frequently as possible, and that I am guilty of committing emotional whiplash, frequent and unkind cliffhangers, and a truly unholy amount of sentiment over Bilbo and his relationship to Thorin and his nephews. I hope none of this will put you off reading or commenting!

I want to go on a journey, here. Come with me?

* * *

Erelin was quiet in the small hours of the morning. Bilbo Baggins drew in a deep breath, letting the smoke fill his lungs, and released it into the smog of the night. The gas lamps in the street flickered with the passing of the sea-breeze, but the smog never lifted or moved. A carriage rattled by below, drawn by a small pony, and Bilbo watched it dispassionately. A Dwarf, most likely, though one with considerably social standing to be moving so freely at this hour.

He puffed at his pipe again, sending a thin, quivering smoke ring into the air. When he had lived in the Shire, he would have delighted in watching the smoke float up into the sky, lit by the starlight and carried away on clean, gently winds. But the Shire was long since behind him -a thousand years away, it sometimes seemed, and here in Erelin, his smoke mingled at once with the thick black smoke from the unceasing fires - gas lamps, and the wood-fires of the poor, and the constant burn of coal for steam. The city reeked of it. The high walls seemed to pen them in with their own foul air, until Bilbo damned his injuries and forced himself to climb to the highest point of his creaky house just to try to rise above the stink, to strive for one more glimpse of the stars. But there were no stars over Erelin.

The last puff of his pipe was a signal disappointment, and Bilbo knocked the ash over the side of the window, little caring for what might be below. The city was beginning to wake up now. The first cries of sea-birds could be heard as the ships prepared to go out with the tide, and the miners were shuffling from their homes, making for the great gate that led from the city to the mines below the mountain. The Men would only open the gate once in the morning and once at night; there was no mercy in them for a Dwarf who ran late.

He tucked his pipe away carefully, lowering the window with care and fastening the brass latch. It didn't do to take risks - not even on the third floor of an empty house; not even when you had nothing to steal. His mangled leg was proof enough of that. He leaned heavily on his cane, easing himself down the steps one at a time, and cursing the dim gas lights that made it so hard to keep an even footing on the warped floorboards. In the Shire, they had never held with steps at all. He missed it fiercely.

The morning paper arrived with a thump against the door as he made tea, and he burned his hand on the stove as the sound made him jump violently. He looked out his peephole three times before opening the door long enough to snatch the paper and pull his head back inside, re-doing all the bolts at once. Bilbo read the paper over breakfast, and shook his head at the news.

There were apparently more mystical cults on the rise in the heart of the city, despite the best attempts of the Governance to crack down on all religious practices. Dwarves were reminded of the restrictions on movement, particularly around the train stations. Construction was to begin on a new fleet of steam vessels, to replace the wooden Navy that was growing derelict in the harbours of Lune. Bilbo snorted at that. Unless the Governance was planning to orchestrate another war with United Gondor, the new ships would serve as little purpose as their dying predecessors. Progress for the sake of progress. He poured more tea.

He read about the rumours of a plague beginning to spread in the slums of Erelin with a heavy heart, and made himself a note to write home for more supplies. The Took might have banished him to Erelin, but he owed Bilbo the same support as any other Healer - even if Bilbo did only work with Dwarves.

Bilbo heaved himself upright and began the daily battle. He fought the pipes that hissed and clanked, unwilling to produce enough hot water for his bath, and then he struggled to dress quickly enough to ward off the chill in the air. The too-large house was never warm. By the time he was suitably attired for the day, pocketwatch tucked carefully into his waistcoat, there was already a small queue outside the door of his little infirmary, and he was sucked in.

He offered what herbs he could to a woman whose wrists and ankles were already dangerously swollen with some joint condition he was not qualified to treat, and wished he could do more than offer her some pain relief. The old watchmaker whose long white beard always seemed to threaten his ability to do his work came by for more of the salve Bilbo made for his painful, failing eyes, and patted his hand kindly in thanks as he tottered away. Bilbo had to actually let one patient inside, to his great discomfort - but the huge, bald, tattooed scrapper was too injured to treat at arm's length over his half-door. He was not grateful - but then, few of the Dwarves really were.

"Got no money to pay you, halfling," he growled angrily as Bilbo finished winding bandages over the shallow knife-wound in his bicep.

"That's quite alright," Bilbo said coolly. "I'm not looking to be paid."

The Dwarf spat on the floor, and Bilbo winced. "Course not. Governance keeps you in food and housing, after all. We should all be so fortunate."

Bilbo was happy to see the back of him.

The crowd eased up after the early hours, and Bilbo had time to sit down with a book between visitors. The sun was weak and watery beyond the smoke and reek, and he had to light a gas lamp to make out some of the faded words in the old text. He was looking for information on Dwarvish plagues, but there was precious little to be found in the reference books of Men. He would have to ask the Took to scour the mathom-houses once again for anything on the Dwarves. It wasn't like anyone else was using that information any longer.

There was another wave of patients in the evening, when the ships had returned and the mines had closed, and Bilbo dealt mechanically with the injuries of the day. He stitched and bandaged the jaggedly-cut palm of a dark-haired street urchin who looked like he still ought to be in day school. From the calluses on the lad's hands, though, and the weary slump to his shoulders, Bilbo was sure he was looking at one of the half-enslaved human boys of the fleet. Once, his heart would have gone out to the boy; but Bilbo had lived ten years now in Erelin, and nine of those without stepping foot from his cold home. He was too weary for pity.

He closed up for the night as dusk was falling, though the coming of night was easier to determine by the ringing of curfew bells than by any change in the light. Dinner was a quiet affair, and Bilbo chose an old favourite to read as he ate - a book of Shire poetry from an earlier Age. The memory of green things, of clear water and bright skies, was enough to set an ache in his throat, and he put the book down after a while. Ten more years before his Mission would be over and he could go home.

The knock on the door made him jump, sending his water glass crashing to the floor, and Bilbo's heart began to pound. A knock in the night had never yet been a good sign. Usually it was a dire medical emergency, but it was always too late to patch the poor bugger up by the time they'd dragged them all the way to Bilbo's door. He wanted to pretend he was not at home - but Bilbo had taken oaths. He stood carefully, avoiding the shards of glass. The soles of his feet might be tough, but they were not invulnerable.

He peered out the peephole, standing at the awkward angle necessary to see the faces of taller Dwarves. The Dwarf on his doorstep didn't look particularly injured or ill. He was standing with his hands tucked into his pockets, rocking back and forth a bit with a deliberate ease that struck Bilbo as very strange indeed. Heaving a sigh, Bilbo unbolted his door, but left the chain latched across, and opened it just wide enough to peer out.

"Can I help you?" he asked, hoping he was giving the impression of not really wanting to help at all. The Dwarf peered in at him, and grinned widely. Bilbo stepped back a bit. That was strange.

"Are you Bilbo Baggins?" he inquired politely.

"Says so on the door, doesn't it?" Bilbo asked. He was being unkind, and he knew it. "Look, it's after curfew, so if you're not currently dying, you should get home and come back in the morning, all right?"

"Oh, I can't do that!" the youngster said - because as Bilbo watched him, it was becoming evident that he was quite young. Bilbo stepped back toward the door and looked closer. Very young indeed; possibly less than ninety. He rubbed his tired eyes and looked again. "I haven't got anywhere to go. I was hoping I could stay with you!"

Bilbo slammed the door in his face, and rubbed a hand across his eyes. Pranksters, at this time of evening? He'd be hauled away by patrols of Men within ten minutes.

A knock came again, and Bilbo sighed and yanked the door back open, jamming it hard against the brass chain. "Look, I'm really not in the mood for a joke tonight. Go home before you find yourself losing a hand. Curfew is a serious matter."

"I know it is," the Dwarf said. He glanced behind himself, staring into the murky gloom, and then looked back to Bilbo. His eyes were piercing. "Please, I need a place to stay, and I don't know who I can trust."

There was a distant shout, and Bilbo knew it was over. A patrol had spotted his visitor, and would take care of his problem.

"I'm a Healer, not a hotel," Bilbo snapped, guilt making him angry.

"Please!" There was fear in the young voice now, and the Dwarf put a hand out to the door, grasping the thick wood only inches from Bilbo's face, but there was no threat in the sudden motion. "Please, I'm looking for something I've lost! It's important!"

Bilbo paused, half-ready to close the door even on the desperate hand. There was something in the plea that struck him inexplicably. A sense of life, maybe; of passion. He hadn't heard that in Erelin for many years. The patrol was coming closer.

"Move your hand, you young fool," he spat after a moment, and closed the door enough to unhook the chain before swinging it wide open. It made no sense to let this mad young Dwarf into his home - but there was a strange feeling rising in his gut, and a buzzing in his head, and he acted without thought. The tall, sturdy young fellow was inside in a heartbeat, slamming the door shut behind him, and Bilbo looked him over in the light.

He was blond, and that was the first strange thing. Bilbo had seen precious few Dwarves whose hair was not grey or white, and those who he had seen were almost all dark-haired, or wildly ginger. In the light, the lad seemed even younger than Bilbo had first thought. His eyes were a bright, piercing blue, and he had a strong nose and chin; a handsome lad, for a Dwarf, but Bilbo knew his views were biased. His clothes were striking - well-made, neat, and clean. He was no ragged street urchin.

"Speak quickly," he said, trying to sound like he was still in control of the situation. He gripped his cane firmly in one hand, prepared to use in it self-defense if needed. "Who are you? And tell me - this thing you're looking for, the important thing you've lost - what is it?"

"Oh, as to that," the Dwarf said brightly. He dipped his head in a low bow, which startled Bilbo; Dwarves never bowed to any but other Dwarves. "I'm called Fíli, and I am in your debt."

Something in Bilbo's head gave a sudden bright spring of recognition, like hearing a long-forgotten melody. It was distinctly disconcerting.

As he straightened again, Fíli offered Bilbo a strange, sad smile. "And I have no idea what it is I've lost. I'm fairly sure it was my heart."


	2. Lost and Ruined By the Fall

Bilbo stared at Fíli in open-mouthed disbelief as the young Dwarf smiled at him, looking for all the world like an honest fellow.

"Lost your heart? As in, fallen in love?" He shook his head, laughing in sheer surprise. "Are you telling me you've broken curfew and invaded my home over some ill-considered romance?" Bilbo was already regretting having opened the door.

Fíli looked startled at the idea. "No! Oh, no, that's not what I meant at all!"

"What, then?" Bilbo demanded. His leg was aching fiercely, having been put to entirely too much use that day, but he didn't dare sit and show his weakness to a stranger.

Fíli had no such hesitation. He pulled out a heavy wooden chair and collapsed into it, but quickly sat up properly, as if reminded that he was meant to be on his best behaviour. "That's just it. I told you, I haven't a clue! It's always been missing. There's been an emptiness - an absence where something precious ought to have been."

Bilbo groaned and ran a hand through his hair, letting his cane rest on the floor to take some of his weight. This was utter nonsense, but he almost felt it served him right for his foolishness in letting this shallow young fellow in. "That's not something specially missing, you fool. It's part of life. We all feel incomplete. It's certainly no reason to barge in and disturb a poor old Hobbit at his rest!"

Fíli leaned forward, looking curious. "Oh, is that what you are? I did wonder! We read about Hobbits in school, but I didn't think there were any left around here!"

"There aren't," Bilbo said shortly. "I'm the only one, and thank you so much for the reminder!" He sat down on his own chair, letting the cane clatter against the table, and glared at Fíli. "Why are you here?"

"Well, I don't really have anywhere else to be," he said, giving an easy shrug. "I've been at Durin's since I was just twenty, and now it's over, and I've no idea where to go."

Bilbo frowned. Durin's Academy was the only academic institution in Erelin that catered to Dwarves, and almost nothing was known about it. It was on a hill on the edge of the city, overlooking the harbour, but the walls were thick, and no-one seemed to come in or go out. Only Dwarf lads went there, he had been told, and only the richest and most well-connected families could afford the cost of sending their sons to be educated there.

"Surely you should have a position of some sort?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at Fíli. "I thought Durin's graduates were the upper echelons of society? Shouldn't you be taking tea with the elders of the city?"

"Ah, but I'm not a graduate, am I?" Fíli said, giving a wry laugh. "No-one graduates from Durin's before they are eighty, and I'm barely seventy."

Seventy? Bilbo stared at him, realising his ability to estimate age in young Dwarves was worse than he had suspected. "So why aren't you there? Thrown out for bad behaviour and bothering your elders, I'll expect?"

"Durin's has closed," Fíli told him flatly. "Over and done. Eight hundred years of education, and they'll never open their doors again."

That was unthinkable. In the Shire, every child was well-educated, and it had always struck Bilbo as deeply unfair that most of the Dwarves of Erelin could not read or write. The children of Men who lived in the city went to day schools and received at least basic instruction, but Durin's Academy had been the only place a Dwarf could learn anything more than what their parents could teach.

"Why?" Bilbo asked blankly.

Fíli spread his hands. "There are no students. For the last fifteen years, there have only been three or four students, and the rest were older and more advanced in their studies. When they left, it was decided that running the whole school for one pupil was inefficient - and I was out on the streets."

Bilbo let out a slow breath. Everyone knew there weren't enough Dwarf children, and Bilbo had often wondered whether they were being hidden somewhere. The Dwarves did not talk about their young. But if there were no students at Durin…

"You were the youngest?"

Fíli nodded.

"Where are the rest? The others who should have come after you?"

"They simply aren't," Fíli declared, voice solemn. "The staff talked about it often enough. There are no more children." He gave a bitter little laugh. "There's some suspicion that I'm the last, more's the pity for the race."

That was a punch to the gut that Bilbo had not anticipated. They were not just hidden away, kept from the eyes of Men – they were not there, and he should have realised it. In ten years of work in Erelin, he had never been asked to help an expectant mother, or a sickly child. His patients grew old and weak, and some had passed away, but there were no young accident victims or colicky babes.

And here was a Dwarf at the tender age of seventy, sitting in his kitchen, bemoaning the existential angst of his existence. It was all too much for Bilbo after a long day. He shot Fíli a glare.

"And does the last of the race not have a family to go home to?" he asked bitterly. "Surely your mother and father must be missing you?"

"Haven't any," Fíli said cheerfully. "I've got a rich old uncle of some sort, though I barely remember him. He paid my way through school, but I've no idea who he is or how to find him."

Bilbo groaned. "And so you've decided you are my problem?"

"Not as such," Fíli told him pensively. "I was looking for somewhere to stay for a bit while I learn about the city, figure out what I'm looking for - that sort of thing." He grinned almost shyly at Bilbo from beneath his golden eyebrows. "Thought this looked like a promising place - and there were Men after me."

"You're not staying," Bilbo said, pointing a finger at him. "You can spend the night, if you leave me in peace, but you'll move on at first light."

"It is a kindness," Fíli said, the traditional form of thanks falling easily from his lips. "Tell me, Mr. Baggins, why were they after me? You said it was a serious matter, and I didn't doubt it - but I've done nothing wrong!"

"You must know about the curfews!" Bilbo was startled by that ignorance, and pursed his lips as Fíli shook his head. "They've been law as long as I've been in Erelin. Dwarves are not permitted to move about between dusk and sunrise unless they have leave. You'll need to educate yourself - and about the restricted zones, as well. Dwarves cannot travel within certain parts of the city, especially near the train lines."

"Whyever not?" Fíli asked, frowning. "Wasn't it Dwarves who built those lines, and who mine the coal for the trains?" A spark of anger was growing in his blue eyes, and Bilbo knew he should crush it. Anger got Dwarves killed in Erelin. But he had not seen such life in an age, and he was loathe to stifle it.

"It's the way of things," he said with a tired sigh, rubbing his forehead. "There were attacks on Men, organised by the cults, and they decided Dwarves required more control. Did they teach you nothing in that school?"

Fíli laughed brightly, though the anger lingered beneath. "Oh, they taught us! We learned the Khuzdul that no-one has spoken in three centuries, and the runes that no-one has written in five. Literature and history, certainly, but nothing that might accidentally come in useful. Philosophy until our heads spun, but nothing that will tell me what has happened to my people!"

"I'm fairly certain the cults have some explanations," Bilbo said, a wry twist to his lips, and Fíli looked disgusted.

"Those, we did learn about," he spat. "Mysticism and superstition, all meant to make people frightened and compliant. They would have us believing in magic again, and that the world was once flat!"

Bilbo put up his hands in self-defense. "I don't know anything about it. They're not exactly welcoming to those who are not Khazad." A crooked smile tugged at his lips. "But I'm afraid I may once have said similar things to my instructors about their myths, much to my detriment."

Fíli looked interested, and a mischievous twinkle started in his eyes. Bilbo felt a tug of familiarity at his heart - but he knew it was just because it had been so long since he had seen one so young and innocent, not yet bent with age and burdens. "Mr. Baggins, do I detect some hint of scandal in your past? Do tell!" He leaned forward to prop his elbows on the table, resting his chin in his hands and smirking at Bilbo. A thin, neatly twisted braid swung loose from behind one ear. It wasn't common these days to see braids - not among those whose hands were destroyed by hard labour on the ships and in the mines.

Bilbo scoffed at the idea - but with a growing amusement, something he hadn't felt in a good many years. There hadn't been many reasons to laugh in Erelin. "Now see here, young fellow, I'll have you know that I was a very bright and dedicated pupil indeed - until they wanted us to study the herbals and practices of earlier ages, and filled our heads with stories of elves and magic! I objected." He scratched one ear, feeling a flush rise in the tips of his ears with the remembered embarrassment. "I'm afraid the old Hobbit never quite forgave me the insult, and I wound up posted here."

Fíli looked at him sideways, ostensibly glancing over at the door which was now blessedly free of visitors. "They didn't teach us much of Hobbits at Durin's, I'm afraid. Forgive my rudeness - but is it true you only live a hundred years?"

The youth of him, the clear lack of social graces that age would shape into a more appropriate shape, was troublingly endearing.

"Usually a bit less than that," Bilbo said dryly. "I've known Hobbits who've lived that long, but most are no more than eighty when they pass on."

Fíli looked startled - as well he should be, as a seventy year old who was no more than a callow youth. "But we read about Hobbits living to much greater ages! Some as much as a hundred and fifty!"

"And so we did, in older days," Bilbo said quietly. "The world has changed since your books were written, lad. Men have grown taller and stronger, and their lives are longer. They've filled this world. We Hobbits found that the Shire was safe enough, and we closed our borders and made ourselves safe. Our lives are long enough for us."

A strange, almost comfortable silence fell over the room, and the hiss and clank of the pipes provided a quiet background noise. It was strange to have companionship in the evening, but Bilbo had lost the tenseness in his shoulders and the deep thrum of fear that usually beat in the pit of his stomach with the presence of a stranger. There was no reason for him to be so easy with this young Dwarf - and yet he was.

Bilbo wound up dragging out a bottle of wine that had been gathering dust in his pantry for nearly a decade, and pouring for them both, though he paused to wonder whether it was considered appropriate for such young Dwarves to drink. Then he shook his head and chuckled at the thought, because at forty-three, he was by far the younger of their little gathering.

After a glass of wine, he was feeling comfortably warm, and the ache in his leg had dwindled to a manageable level, and conversation with Fíli became easy - and, indeed, enjoyable. Bilbo had not met someone as well-read as himself since leaving the Shire, and he found a quiet joy in being able to discuss things beyond the nasty, gritty reality that surrounded him. After two glasses, they were laughing together like old friends, and Bilbo found a strange melody in the sound. He kept thinking, somewhere in a happily detached part of his mind that seemed to be wrapped in cotton wool, that if he could just remember the song that was tugging at his heart and his mind, everything would fall into place. But the song danced away from his grasp as he reached for it, and hung just outside his reach.

Fíli was merry at first, but as the hour grew late and they drained the last of the wine, a sadness seemed to overtake him - and not the melancholy of the overly drunk Hobbits that Bilbo remember so fondly. There was a weight to his sorrow that was almost frightening. He did not speak of it, but his shoulders slumped and his eyes were so horribly sad that Bilbo would not meet them.

He was missing his heart, he had said, and Bilbo suddenly understood his meaning in a way that Fíli had not been able to express properly in words. He was young and healthy, with the education and privilege that few other Dwarves shared - and yet he seemed to hardly be holding himself together.

_Of course he isn't,_ something in his head sang. _He has lost his other half, and what is Fíli when he is not an older brother? He does not know himself._

Bilbo blinked, and the thought faded beyond clear recall. What was left was a riotous tug of empathy that he thought he had left behind long ago, and he pushed himself to his feet and thumped over to stand beside the lad. He put a hand on Fíli's shoulder and shook it gently.

"Dawn won't come any later because we haven't slept," he said a trifle gruffly. "I haven't got a room made up to offer you, but there's a clean bed in my infirmary you can have for the night."

Fíli put a hand over Bilbo's in silent acknowledgment and thanks, and stood slowly, like an old man in the body of a youth. Bilbo pointed him through to the infirmary, and waited until the door closed quietly before he limped heavily back to his own room, collapsing into his bed without bothering to change into nightclothes. He was asleep in moments, drifting off with a song tantalisingly close to mind.

He woke up near panic, though, as a scream shattered the silence. Bilbo was on his feet in an instant, fumbling with the lamp he kept close to hand in case of emergency. It took his sleep-thick fingers a long moment to send the light flaring bright, and his brain took equally long to catch on, to remind him that he was not being attacked again - he had a guest. The scream went on and on, full of pain and terror and loss, and Bilbo wanted to clap his hands to his ears to drown out the sound. Instead, he snatched his cane and hurried toward the infirmary faster than his leg could truly bear.

"Wake up, boy," Bilbo snapped as soon as he opened the door to the infirmary, trying to be heard over the scream. Fíli was flat on his back, fists tangled in the thin blanket, and the expression on his face was one that Bilbo had only ever seen before on those who were dying, and that painfully. "Fíli!" He let the cane fall to the side as he reached the bed, using his free hand to grab the lad's shoulder and shake him hard.

Fíli came awake with a gasp that was more like a sob, and the scream turned into a harsh, rasping breath as he struggled to breathe. Bilbo helped him upright, keeping a supportive hand on his back as Fíli's shoulders heaved. "That's it, lad," he muttered, "just breathe."

It took a long while before he was calm again, though his eyes showed no trace now of the horror and fear that Bilbo had heard in his screams. Fíli seemed puzzled, more than anything, but his face was wet with sweat and tears, and his shirt felt damp beneath Bilbo's hand.

"What happened?" he finally asked, wiping at his face with two shaking hands, and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed to sit facing Bilbo.

"You should answer that question," Bilbo said calmly, using the tone he adopted with his patients. "Do you often suffer from terrors at night?"

"Never," Fíli said, bemused. "I sometimes wake up feeling that I've dreamt something important, but never anything like this." He looked so puzzled that Bilbo couldn't question his truthfulness. "I don't remember what I was dreaming just now. It was so real, though."

"I should say so," Bilbo muttered. He tugged at one of Fíli's sleeves. "Your shirt is damp through. Give it to me, and we'll get it cleaned up. You can borrow something of mine, though it'll be small."

Fíli nodded dazedly, clearly still half-lost in whatever had consumed him so. He lifted his arms, tugging the shirt over his head in one smooth motion, and Bilbo nearly dropped his lantern.

He was sturdily muscled, in the way that Dwarven men tended to be, and golden hair covered his chest and torso - but they could not cover the scar. Just over his heart, marked in garish red, was a thick scar. It was no mark from a simple knife fight or altercation with a beast. This was deep and thick, and Bilbo could not imagine how he had survived the wound. He stuttered, trying not to sound as shocked as he felt.

"What was done to you? How did you live through that?"

Fíli stared at him, startled. "What do you mean?"

Bilbo jabbed a finger just above the gory sight. "That scar! It must have been a nearly fatal blow!"

Fíli looked down, and his eyes widened in shock. One hand crept up to trace the outline of the mark, and his fingers trembled. His eyes were nearly vacant as he stared at his chest.

"A sword in my heart," he said absently, and looked up at Bilbo, lost and frightened. "There was a sword in my heart - and yet there never was! I have never had this mark before." Bilbo backed away an unsteady step, and Fíli stared at him, eyes wide in his pale face. "What is happening?"

Bilbo shook his head, words stuck in his throat, heart pounding. He could put no words to the events of the night, but the song of memory was shimmering in his head, just beyond his reach.

Fíli clasped both hands to his heart, as if to assure himself it was still beating, and looked up at Bilbo in something nearby to terror. "What have you done to me?"

* * *

Wow, thank you so much for the support and the amazingly kind comments! I'm so excited for this project, and taking this journey with you is honestly the greatest blessing. Thank you for taking the time to read this very strange piece!

In answer to an earlier question - yes, Erelin is a corruption of Ered Luin, which is vaguely where they are. The geography has shifted in a thousand years, but we'll get into all of that in good time.


	3. The Embers of the Ages

It took a long while to calm Fíli down, and even longer to convince him that Bilbo hadn't had anything to do with his inexplicable episode. The sun was rising as they sat at the table, mugs of tea gone cold in their hands, both staring blankly at the table.

"Something is wrong," Fíli said quietly, echoing the refrain they had shared a dozen times already. "With me, or with you. Maybe with the whole world. I don't know anymore."

"There has to be a rational explanation," Bilbo muttered, rubbing at his eyes. They'd taken turns telling each other that, as well. "The dream is easy enough. We all suffer strange dreams, sometimes, and you've just had a radical upheaval in your life. Some disturbance is bound to be expected."

Fíli thumped a fist against his chest, made angry by helpless confusion. "And what of this? Why do I remember a sword in my chest, when I've never had more than scrapped knees from playing too wildly as a child?"

"How should I know?" Bilbo snapped, slamming his mug down on the table. "You are the one who came to me! I never sought you out, or asked you to stay here!" He heaved himself painfully to his feet, his leg protesting the lack of rest and the indelicate treatment. "I'll have patients waiting before long. See yourself out if you're leaving." He limped heavily back to his room, forgoing a bath that morning. He was in no mood to wrestle with unreliable water pipes. Getting properly dressed was difficult enough, and his hands shook a bit as he buttoned his vest.

Fíli was still there when he emerged, staring sightlessly at the dark wood of the table, and Bilbo passed him without a word, making for the infirmary. He cleared away the young Dwarf's things, and set it back in order before unbarring the top half of his door and facing his visitors.

The usual crowd of complaints were represented - aches and pains of all sorts, minor injuries, fevers that had spiked in the night - and Bilbo worked automatically, passing out herbs and tending to wounds with only half his mind engaged. A scrawny Dwarf, too nervous to stammer out his complaint, came to be treated for the raw redness of his fingers, and Bilbo remembered him.

"Textile mill, right?" he asked crankily, applying a salve and wrapping the worst injuries. He'd seen this Dwarf several times before. He always looked so hungrily at the books that made up Bilbo's little medical library. "Invest in some gloves or something. It's only getting worse, isn't it?"

"The - the quality's gone down," he stuttered, blinking fast. "Thread cuts, and the fabric's so rough. It - it wears on you."

"Gloves," Bilbo said firmly. "Or I'm going to think you're only visiting me for the pleasure of my company." The Dwarf nodded quickly and took off, but not without glancing back over his shoulder at Bilbo, or at his books.

The stream dried to a trickle, and then there was quiet at Bilbo's door. The sounds of the city didn't stop - crackling fires, and the monotonous clang of the machines that ran everything, now - but there were no more faces silently twisted in pain and worry. Dwarves did not complain, as a rule. They sought help when they needed it, and most were not too proud to ask, but they didn't beg, and they didn't complain. They endured.

He went back inside. The Dwarves worked during the day, almost without exception, and he would be unbothered, except in case of an emergency, until their shifts were over for the night. Fíli was still in the kitchen, but he had put his shirt back on to cover his scarred chest, and was pouring over one of Bilbo's books.

"I thought you were leaving," Bilbo said coolly, glancing at his pocketwatch. It was Dwarvish make, a replacement for his father's watch that had been smashed in the attack that ruined his leg.

"Where do I have to go?" Fíli asked. There was little life to it, and he didn't look up.

"Find your uncle," Bilbo suggested. "Surely he can help you, if he's that rich."

Fíli's head snapped up at that, and he fixed Bilbo with a sharp blue stare. "Something is happening to me, Mr. Baggins, and I want to know what it is - and I think it must have something to do with you. Why would all this start just now, just when I meet you, if it weren't?"

Bilbo sighed. He wasn't going to waste time arguing. He glanced at the paper that Fíli had retrieved and left on the table, looking at it just long enough to see a headline on the growing plague worries. No-one had come to him about it yet, of course. He might be the only official Healer assigned to Erelin, but that didn't mean that Governance trusted him, or that the Dwarves would come to him with anything but clear and present problems. He needed to write back to the Shire, and he needed to send word to his contacts in the city, to see if there might be anything he could do to help the Dwarves contain the spread of the illness. He didn't need Fíli and his problems, and his blood-curdling scream, and the way he made something long-since dormant in Bilbo's heart clench.

"I don't know anything," he said quietly, "and I don't know how to help you."

"Then let's find someone who can!" Fíli gestured wildly toward the door, his eyes lighting up with the idea of action. "There must be someone! There were learned men at Durin's who might be able to help, who might have heard of something like this happening before!"

Bilbo sat down deliberately. "No."

Fíli blinked at him in shock, letting his book fall closed. "You don't want to help?"

"I have no objections to helping you - but I'm not going out there." Bilbo looked around the room, taking in the familiar sights that had become almost comforting. "I don't leave this house. Erelin is no place for a Hobbit."

Fíli's eyes softened, and he looked at Bilbo's leg in sympathetic understanding. "Did a Dwarf do that to you?"

Bilbo nodded, the movement tight and jerky, and let one hand creep to his knee, fingers trailing down to ghost over the place where bone had shattered and flesh had torn, where all his best efforts to set it right had been minimally useful. He could walk these days, with a semblance of normality, but it would never be whole again.

"Well, that's fine!" Fíli said, jumping up and beginning to pace around the room. "I can go and look for help, see what I can learn, and then I'll come back and tell you!"

"Why are you so set on this?" Bilbo asked, feeling weighed down by the energy and innocence of the lad. It tore at his nerves, and at the shields he had put up, and he wanted to push him out the door and lock it again behind him. "I've never met a Dwarf so bent on finding trouble! Leave it be, lad. Find your uncle, find yourself some profitable work, and live your life. Leave me to mine."

"I can't!" He whirled on the spot, like a caged animal, and his hands tangled themselves in his golden hair. "I've lived my whole life feeling like I've been torn in two and scattered to the winds - and now I'm dreaming of lives I never lived, and deaths I never died, and the scar of it is written on my heart! You cannot expect me to go to work in a mine and never think on it!"

"Then go back to your school and bury yourself in your books!" Bilbo retorted. "See what they can tell you of this! I know nothing of the history of the Dwarves! Perhaps this is something that happens to your people, and my scant references have not informed me!"

Fíli looked away, almost ashamed, and shook his head. "The history of the Dwarves is a closed book, Mr. Baggins, even at Durin's. We have lost our stories. If this is something that takes Dwarves regularly, I will find no word of it there."

For Hobbits, history was a thing to be taken very seriously on a personal level. Bilbo had grown up learning all the stories of his relatives, near and distant, and of every memento and mathom and heirloom in his family's neat little home. But beyond that, Hobbits were distinctly uninterested in the stories of the past - which was, after all, a distant country and therefore suspect. The myths of the past were handed down to children at bedtime, and to students in the form of lessons on medical history, and not otherwise. He had always thought, though, that Dwarves clung more dearly to their past.

"But, surely," he started, and Fíli cut him off, annoyance written clearly in his young face.

"They took it from us when we were contained in the cities," he said angrily. "They took our books and records and artifacts, and we were told to focus on the jobs in front of us. Men." The word was a curse, and Fíli's mouth twisted in a nasty, unpleasant shape.

"But I've heard the stories!" Bilbo protested. "This Durin your Academy was named after, I've heard about him."

"Oh, I'm sure you have," Fíli laughed, and it was bitter. "Durin appeared from the rocks, and lived seven times. Durin fought a dragon bare-handed and won his mountain back from it's clutches. Durin walked a magical ring into the fires of the heart of the earth and was saved from the flames by eagles." He snorted. "These are legends told to children to make them dream great dreams at night. All we know of our history is what has been set down in the last two hundred years, since our confinement to the cities."

Bilbo threw up his hands. "If you do not know your own people, how can you expect me to? I'm a Healer with a very limited supply of herbs, and none of them will do you one whit of good! I do not know what you would have me do."

Fíli looked so disappointed that Bilbo felt it in his bones, and he turned away, going to the sideboard to wind the clock that stood there, dusty and unpolished.

The suddenly awkward silence was broken by a quiet ring of the brass bell that hung outside Bilbo's infirmary, and he startled at the sound. Eyes downcast, Fíli handed Bilbo the cane he had left leaning against the table, and he leaned heavily on it as he made his way through the pass and into the infirmary. The Dwarf who stood at his half-door was unfamiliar to Bilbo, but didn't look terribly ill or injured. He was dressed all in shades of rust and brown, his clothing tattered around the edges in the way common to most Dwarves, but his eyes were bright and oddly cheerful. He ducked his head in a little bow as Bilbo approached.

"Master Healer," he greeted Bilbo, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth.

"What can I do for you?" Bilbo asked shortly. He'd had about enough of Dwarves for one day, and it wasn't yet noon.

"Well, I suppose that's the question, isn't it?" The Dwarf looked at Bilbo strangely. "I rather think I'm meant to be doing something for you."

"Gandalf's beard! Will there be no end to this madness?" Bilbo exploded. He threw his cane against the door, where it clattered to the ground and lay innocently in a weak and smoggy beam of sunlight. "Is there an illness upon all Dwarves now that makes you seek to frustrate an old Hobbit into an early grave?"

His visitor clucked his tongue regretfully, shaking his head. "I seem to have come at a bad time. I'm sorry to have disturbed you." He glanced over his shoulder quickly, then raised a fist in the air before releasing it into an open palm that he extended toward Bilbo. "May his hammer shield you," he murmured quietly, and smiled as Bilbo with such a sweet, sad look that he was quite taken aback. His heart gave a thud, and the faint buzzing feeling in his head picked up a notch in intensity.

"You!" Fíli had followed Bilbo through the pass at the sound of his outburst, and now stood pointing accusingly at the ragged Dwarf. "You're from the cults! They taught us the signs and sayings you use. Keep away from this Hobbit!"

"Really?" Bilbo asked, curiosity waging a brief but fierce war against annoyance and coming out on top. "Are you, then?"

The Dwarf looked hunted, and glanced over his shoulder again before dropping a brief nod. "Yes - but I can't talk about it out in the open like this!" He looked slightly desperate, but Bilbo's interest was now well and truly piqued. He dropped a hand to the brass knob, working the stiff key in the lock until the lower half of the door swung open with a creak, and the Dwarf hopped inside. Bilbo reached over the door and flipped his little plaque over, so that it informed any passers-by that he was currently Out to Tea - a lie he had been cheerfully proclaiming for nearly a decade - and then swung both halves of the door shut, leaving them in the gloom of the closed infirmary.

Fíli strode over with something like a swagger, and took up an aggressive position at Bilbo's side. Bilbo tried not to be amused.

"I won't have you trying to kidnap him, or force him to help you with your vile schemes," he said, somewhat grandly - a boy playing at being a grown Dwarf, and looking a bit foolish in the attempt.

"Right, well, it's just as well I've not got any plans toward that end, then," the visitor said, grinning cheekily. He was even more shabby-looking up close, and Bilbo noted that his tattered hat looked like it had once been made of some sort of fur. Now it was little more than patchy scraps held together with too much thread. "Bofur, they call me." He bowed to Fíli, and it almost seemed to encompass Bilbo as well.

"Fíli," the lad said sullenly, and returned the bow, though in a cautious, perfunctory manner that could have been taken as insult, had Bofur chosen to stand on ceremony.

"Bilbo Baggins," Bilbo put in, a little miffed at being left out of the proper greetings. Dwarves! No respect for anyone under four foot tall. He shook his head. "So, these cults."

"That's not the nicest thing you might call us," Bofur pointed out, with a good-natured grin. "Is the tea this way, then?" He wandered through toward the kitchen, and Bilbo and Fíli followed. "We call ourselves the Children of the Maker - and we're not in the business of vile schemes, as it happens."

"You want people believing in the old gods!" Fíli snapped. "You want them frightened!"

Bofur tipped his head to the side, considering the lad. "Now, why would anyone be frightened?"

Fíli repeated the gesture Bofur had made before with the closed fist raised high, and raised his eyebrows meaningfully. "Mahal's hammer? Meant to strike fear into our hearts, isn't it?"

Bofur laughed - a rich, full sound that made the tip of Bilbo's nose twitch. For a second, he could have sworn he smelled the smoke of a campfire.

"Oh, lad. They've taught you nothing of the Maker! Mahal is not to be feared. His hammer is our shield against our foes, and never a weapon against his people!"

Fíli blinked, but remained stubborn. "But it's all mysticism! Deities and magic and the like - what place does it have in Erelin?"

Bofur sighed, his eyes sad, but he smiled wistfully. "Aye, that's the question of the age, isn't it?" He patted Fíli gently on the shoulder and handed him a cup of tea, ignoring his bemused look. "It's not about magic, boy. It's about love."

"That is all very poetic," Bilbo put in, taking a second cup of tea from Bofur's hands and cradling it in both of his, inhaling the warm steam gratefully. "But none of it has a thing to do with me, and yet here you are, in my kitchen. Two of you - and both spouting the strangest nonsense I've heard since coming to this benighted city."

Bofur flapped a hand at them, and they both sat down without question, waiting as he joined them. He stuffed a biscuit in his mouth as he sat, eating hungrily. "It's all got something to do with you, Master Baggins, though I don't know what. I was on my way to visit the sick on the other side of the city, and as I passed by, I had the strangest sensation. Buzzing in my head, that sort of thing." He gestured vaguely up towards his horrible hat. "And I knew I had to stop. There's something happening here that I'm meant to help with."

"Are you a prophet now, as well as a zealot?" Fíli asked sharply - but he looked uncomfortable, and one hand had gone up to rub at his temple, as though he could feel the same buzzing sensation himself.

"Of course not," Bofur said, chuckling. "No more than any Dwarf. I have a way with people, though, and it usually does not lead me too far astray." He cocked his head, studying Fíli. "Take you, for example. You're young. Very young, in fact, and clearly well-educated. How old are you, lad?"

"Seventy," Fíli said uncomfortably, shuffling a bit in his seat. "But I'm no child. I know better than to trust a priest."

"Seventy," Bofur mused. He shook his head. "Youngest I've ever met, but for one. Mahal preserve us."

Fíli knocked his tea over and stared at Bofur, wild-eyed. "One? There was another Dwarf, younger than me?"

Bofur nodded, but he looked deeply sad. His eyes were distant as he spoke. "Sixty five years ago, it was - the worst winter we've seen in a century, and a baby Dwarf was left on my doorstep. I was hardly more than a youth myself, but he couldn't have been more than a few hours old. I took him in, of course, and we saw him as a miracle. It had been many a year, then, since a child was born to any Dwarf."

"Where is he?" Fíli asked intently, leaning forward. "What is he like?"

Bofur shook his head. "Gone. We were set upon by Men in the depths, and they took him from me. Said he must be a child of Men, his features were so fair. I searched for him, of course, but what can be done against the strength of Men?" He stared into the depths of his cup, utterly lost. "So it goes," Bofur murmured. "Ever I have failed to protect you."

Bilbo's skin prickled, and he shivered a bit. There was something in the air between them, like the crackling sensation in the air before the heavens let loose with rain and lightning.

"And now?" he asked, voice hushed. It didn't seem right to speak loudly. "What are we doing? What is happening to us?" It was impossible, now, to pretend that nothing strange was occurring.

Bofur blinked and lifted his head, eyes clearing. "The Children of the Maker have been waiting. For hundreds of years, we have kept the old ways and knowledge, and looking for our hope."

"What hope is there to be found in Erelin?" Bilbo asked. The sun's pale light seemed to answer his question. Shine as it might on the fields and villages of the Shire, it could not pierce the darkness of the last home of the Dwarves. They were fading, lost in the night of the city that was their prison, and a load of old mystics hiding beneath the ground would not change any of that.

"There is always hope," Bofur said gently. There was strength in his eyes, and in the kindness of his smile. "We are not abandoned. These truths we know: we are loved of our Maker, and we are to be saved, until the world is remade. There is a place for us, even as we wither and grow old." He leaned forward, his eyes growing sharper and more intense. "And it is said that there is one who could lead us out of this darkness. A king, who could bring hope to the Dwarves again - one who led us before, and will return again."

Bilbo blinked, taken aback - and in the instant of closing his eyes, he saw an image. Dark hair, streaked with silver, and fierce blue eyes that burned like dragonfire. Startled, he opened his eyes again, and saw a look of shock on the faces of both Dwarves that he was sure mirrored his own.

"Did we lose him?" he asked, not even sure what he was saying.

"We'll find him," Fíli answered slowly, sounding dazed. "We'll find them all again."

* * *

And it begins!

I've spent more time with my copy of the Silmarillion in plotting this story than I have in a decade, but at the heart, it's a Dwarvish story.

Erelin is dark, and depressing, and brings out the very worst in everyone - but I will ask you to remember that the sun still shines on Middle Earth, and that there has always been a will opposing the forces of darkness. It will not always be so grim.

Thank you so much for your kindnesses, and for taking the time to read! It is so very much appreciated!


	4. The Sands of Time Are Sinking

Bilbo was not quite certain how he had ended up with a seemingly constant Dwarvish visitor - but Fíli had not left the previous evening, and had seemed content to make himself comfortable in the infirmary indefinitely. Bilbo thought to at least get some work out of his guest, and soon set Fíli to work clearing out an upper room or two, and heaved a sigh of relief when the sturdy young Dwarf hauled his meagre collection of belongings away up the steps. Of course, he regretted it later.

The screaming from the floor above had Bilbo out of bed in a flash, heart pounding with terror, and hand fumbling at his side for a sword he had never worn. His cane was at hand, though, and he leaned heavily on it as he climbed the stairs as quickly as his leg would allow, though he had to bite back a gasp of pain with every step. Fíli was still screaming when he got there, and Bilbo shook him roughly.

"Fíli! Wake up!"

He came awake with a shudder and a sob that he quickly muffled with both hands, body shaking in reaction, and Bilbo slumped against the wall, stretching his leg out before him. "That's it, lad," he murmured, bedside manner coming automatically despite the hour. "Just breathe."

"Can't," Fíli gasped. He put his hands to his throat. "They hanged me. Couldn't breathe at all." Another shudder wracked his body, and he looked like he might be ill. "Someone was screaming."

Bilbo frowned, discord jangling in his head. "That's not right. You died in battle!" He wasn't sure what made him say that, but he knew it, deep down. "You've got the scar to prove it!"

Fíli yanked up his shirt to check, and Bilbo sent the flame shooting high and bright in the gas light, illuminating the dim room. Sure enough, the scar was still there. But Bilbo frowned as he looked at the lad. There, around his neck, was a dark purple bruise, deep and painful. Bilbo reached out with a cautious hand to probe the injury, and Fíli scuttled backward, hands flying to his throat.

"Well," Bilbo said after a moment, as Fíli continued to breathe roughly, watching him with wary eyes, "it seems we're not to have a night of peace any time soon."

They tried to sleep again once they had calmed themselves, and Bilbo hoped Fíli might have slumbered, but Bilbo lay awake, staring at the ceiling, and trying very hard not to think of what it would be like to be hanged - or to remember it.

Dawn's first light brought Bilbo's usual visitors. They stood outside in the chilly drizzle, waiting patiently to be seen to, none of them complaining even as their beards grew heavy with rain. He spotted Bofur at the back of the queue, and his ears prickled. They had parted the previous day on friendly terms, but he had not expected to see the Dwarf again so soon - not until he had news to share. Bilbo picked up the pace, slapping packets of herbs into waiting hands and moving with unusual speed. He cursed his leg under his breath every time it caused him to nearly stumble or break his stride.

They shuffled away into the morning gloom as he finished with them, some giving him a nod of approval or grudging thanks. Most simply took what he offered and went on their way. Gratitude was not the way of things in Erelin.

Finally, they were gone, all except for Bofur and his companion, a grey-headed old Dwarf who was close by his side, as if offering support. They made their way to Bilbo's door, and he swung it open quickly, beckoning them inside.

"What has happened?" he asked, looking them up and down with a Healer's eye.

"We don't rightly know, Master Healer," the grey-headed Dwarf said loudly. He eyed Bofur worriedly. "We were woken in the night by such a scream as you have never heard! Even I heard it, though my ears fail me these last few years. He would not answer when we questioned his dreams." He leaned in toward Bilbo as if sharing a secret, but did it at such a volume that it could not be missed by anyone in the room. "They may be from Mahal, these dreams. We must know!"

Bilbo tried to school his expression, but he was afraid the disdain that flickered over his face must have been visible. "Master Dwarf, I think it unlikely. Our dreams are the products of our minds and the experiences of our lives- not messages from invisible deities." He took Bofur by the arm and led him to sit down on the examination table, noting how his hands were clenched in tight fists.

"Are we under siege now?" Fíli asked wryly, putting his head around the corner of the door. He did not look rested, precisely, but he was walking and talking easily. His clothing had been carefully arranged to hide his throat. "Will the cults descend upon us one by one, until we are all godly creatures?"

"Tea, please," Bilbo called severely. "They've had a long wait in the rain - and you'd do well to show a bit more respect to your elders!"

Fíli shrugged easily, a grin tugging crookedly at one corner of his mouth. "If we all followed that advice, I should never be respected at all!" He sauntered off toward the kitchen, and Bilbo turned his attention back to Bofur.

"You dreamed a terrible thing," he said flatly. There could be little doubt of it. "I expect you dreamed of your death, and that in such detail that it seemed like reality."

Bofur gaped at him, mouth open and eyes wide, and nodded slowly. "It's all faded now," he said, voice hardly more than a whisper. "But I was so afraid."

"Were you changed by it?" Bilbo asked, and gestured broadly at him. "Is there a mark upon you now?"

Bofur hesitated a moment, then slowly removed his ragged coat and pushed his sleeves up his arms, baring his forearms. They were horribly scarred - flesh twisted and mangled as though it had been half-melted and re-formed, and Bilbo swallowed hard.

"These were not here before I slept," Bofur said. There was horror in his voice. "There are others, all over."

"Burnt," Bilbo whispered, gentle fingers prodding at the scars of what must have been a ghastly wound. "You burned to death."

Bofur shuddered, then straightened his shoulders, tugging the sleeves down to cover the scars, and adopted an expression of determined cheerfulness. "Well, I suppose I'd best watch my step, then. I don't want to do it again." His voice was cheerful, but the horror was still in his eyes, and Bilbo could hear the unsteadiness in his breathing.

"How do you mean?" Bilbo inquired, backing up a pace to give the Dwarf his space.

"If they catch us - the Men - we're generally executed. Those of us who hold to the old ways, that is," he explained at Bilbo's look of confusion. "They will not stand for it."

"And they burn people?" Bilbo was horrified. The papers never spoke of that - but there was a lot the papers didn't tell him.

"Sometimes," Bofur said. "If they've made enough trouble. I'd say I've caused them enough sleepless nights over the years to warrant a fire." He shook his head, dismissing the gory idea. "But how did you know? I had not even told Oin about the marks!"

"I've seen this before," Bilbo said grimly. Fíli came in, bearing a tray of tea, and passed them around quickly. Oin was watching their conversation, but the incomprehension on his face made it clear that he was following little of their talk. "Fíli, we seem to have found you a companion in your nighttime adversities."

Fíli blinked in surprise, and rounded on Bofur. "You've been having the dreams, too?"

"Last night was the first time," Bofur said, startled. "I don't remember anything - but my body seems to." He pushed one sleeve up high enough to display the scars again, and Fíli sucked in a sharp breath as the truth registered. Wordlessly, he tugged aside the cloths around his neck to show the bruising, which almost looked black in the dim light, and then lifted his tunic to show the scar over his heart.

"I hadn't had such dreams until I met Mr. Baggins," Fíli said soberly, and let his tunic fall again. "Now, for two nights, I have dreamed of deaths I have not died."

"Mahal preserve us," Bofur whispered fervently. It was a prayer.

"But you remembered more this time, didn't you?" Bilbo asked, winding his fingers tightly around the warm mug Fíli had pressed into his hands.

"Not much," he said, frowning. "Just images here and there, and someone screaming for me." He winced at the memory, eyes pained.

"If we are both having these dreams, does it mean we have shared this experience that we dream about?" Bofur asked, running a hand over his head and knocking his tattered cap backward. "Or is Mahal trying to teach us something?"

Fíli glowered at him. "Keep your gods out of this. I am no plaything in their games."

Bilbo interceded before a theological debate could break out. "For the moment, let's assume a rational answer is possible, hmm? What do we do now?"

"We need to find the King," Bofur said firmly. "He is the only one who can lead us from our darkness."

"Surely we need to determine if there are more Dwarves who suffer from your same condition!" Bilbo protested. The thought of this horror descending upon the Dwarves at large shook his confidence, but he tried to think about it as he would approach a disease. "We need to discover all of the cases, and see what the common factors are."

Fíli shook his head, looking stubborn. "I have to find the thing I have lost! I felt, in my dream, that even as I was dying, I was still whole." He put a hand to his chest, perhaps not conscious he was doing it. "I will find my heart, and then, perhaps, all of this will make sense."

They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Bilbo shook his head. "Anyway, it's not my business. This is Dwarf matters, and I have duties as a Healer. I can't go running off on some mysterious quest!" He thought of the rumours of plague, and felt an uneasiness. "I must look to my duties."

"Very well," Fíli said, nodding quickly. "I believe I must seek my uncle. If there is anyone who can tell me what I might be looking for, surely it is my kin!"

"How will you find him, then?" Bilbo asked, furrowing his forehead. "I thought you didn't even recall his name."

"I don't, but they kept careful records at Durin's," Fíli told him. "Someone who worked there will know who paid my schooling fees."

Bofur got to his feet, looking steadier now, and more composed. "Oin and I will return to our Keep. The Children of Mahal have kept much knowledge that has been lost to the world, hidden away. I don't say that we can read it all, mind, but it's somewhere to start."

Fíli leaned in, looking interested. "If it's a matter of reading runes, perhaps I can help! They taught us at school, but we had few texts to study."

"I'll see what might be of use and bring it around," Bofur promised, clapping his hat back on his head and offering Fíli a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, lad. We are not abandoned." He lifted a fist high and brought it down an open palm, which he laid lightly on Fíli's golden head for a moment. "May his hammer shield you, and his fires keep you ever warm." Fíli looked dubious at the blessing, but allowed the contact without a protest, and Bofur made for the door with a quick bow to Bilbo.

Oin made to follow him, and paused to clap a hand on Bilbo's shoulder. "My thanks for your assistance, though I've no idea what you've done," he said loudly. "But we seem always to be in your debt, Master Baggins!"

Bilbo smiled at him, easy in a way that he never was with strangers, and tried to stomp down the sudden conviction that this man would be the next to suffer the terrible dreams and inexplicable scars.

Fíli followed them out the door, promising to be back before the curfews that night, and Bilbo found himself alone in his house for the first time in what seemed like ages. He shut and locked the door behind them, pulling out his pipe as he limped to his writing desk by the window. He had duties to attend to, no matter what manner of madness these Dwarves insisted on dragging into his life.

He finished his letter to the Took before the post arrived, and handed the thick missive over to the old Dwarf with a quick nod. It was an exchange, though, as two more heavyset Dwarves staggered up behind him, laden with parcels, and Bilbo groaned. He had forgotten it was time for the deliveries.

Every fortnight they came from the Governance, all neatly wrapped and labeled, delivered to Bilbo's doorstep so he never had need of stepping out into Erelin. He had tried requesting things specifically when he first arrived, idealistic and passionate, but that had quickly been beaten out of him by the cold unconcern of the Governance. They sent the cheapest materials they could, it seemed - herbs half-rotten or old enough to have lost most of their potency, and bandages nearly rough enough to be used as sandpaper - but it was still more than Bilbo received from the Shire. They sent other necessities, too - the food and drink he needed, and pipeweed about half as often as he would like it. He got by.

This time, there seemed to be more parcels than usual, and Bilbo looked them over curiously. There were extra syringes and glassware for the cures he concocted himself, and a large collection of wide fabric strips labeled MASKS. Most strange of all, though, were the little bottles of cloudy liquid that he recognised at a glance. A mixture of pain-relieving opiate and alcohol, it was known for it's usefulness in aiding injured Men and Hobbits. But the Governance had never sent any to Bilbo before, and for a good reason. The mixture had a potent effect on Dwarves, and even the tiniest dosage given to a human child would see a Dwarf dead in hours, gone peacefully in his sleep as the drug carried him down.

Bilbo pushed the little wooden medicine chest away from him with a shudder, and looked through the wrapping for any sort of explanation. He finally happened upon a note, written in the clear, blocky script of Men that always looked childishly awkward to Bilbo.

"For the Alleviation of Suffering," it read, "should the Plague run it's course." That was all - but Bilbo could read between the lines. He threw the note into the chest and slammed it shut, then hobbled away with it, stuffing it at the back of his medicine cabinet with fierce, sharp movements. He would not use the medication of Men to end the lives of the Dwarves - not unless the suffering was so great that it overrode every oath he had taken.

But his eyes had been opened, and Bilbo found his morning paper and began scouring it for information, eventually going so far as to find an old map of the city and start charting the places where the rumours said the plague had been seen. The reported cases were all near the harbour, where Dwarves and Men mingled together on the ships that brought in goods from afar, and went in and out each day to haul fish from the sea. The Dwarves hated the ships, for they were no more fond of water than most Hobbits, and it was seen as demeaning to have to leave the solid earth and go out on the wooden contraptions.

Of course the plague was coming in from the harbour, where Dwarves mingled with Men from all different parts of Middle Earth, and were exposed to many illnesses that Erelin had not seen. Bilbo frowned as he considered the supplies he had been sent. It seemed that the Governance anticipated the plague being very troublesome indeed, to dedicate so many resources to it before the one Healer in the city had seen a single case. It almost seemed that they had known in advance.

But that was an unworthy idea, and he dismissed it quickly. Bilbo shook his head at his own foolishness and forced himself to his feet, busying his hands and mind with putting away all of the supplies and brewing the simple remedies he tried to keep on hand. He portioned out the herbal remedies, preparing for the evening rush on his door, and tried not to wonder what Bofur and Fíli might be finding. He wanted nothing to do with their mad quest. It frightened him, the strangeness of what was happening to them, and the size of it - and most of all, it frightened Bilbo how very much he wanted to throw himself into the midst of it. These Dwarves, these strangers, had invaded his life and home - and he half wanted to follow them out the door and into the unknown, something in his heart telling him that he would never be the same - and that he would be happier for it.

He was startled from his thoughts by a knock on the front door, and he hurried through to find Fíli standing there expectantly. He grinned at Bilbo as the door swung open and hopped inside, making himself immediately at home.

"You look pleased," Bilbo said cautiously. Fíli nodded, throwing himself in a chair and leaning back with youthful grace.

"I found Dori - he was keeper of the records at Durin's - and persuaded him to give over the name and address of my dear old uncle!" he said brightly, stretching his long legs across Bilbo's kitchen floor. "The old fellow doesn't live far from here, but I thought I should save a visit until tomorrow and avoid any further trouble with the patrols."

"Oh, good," Bilbo said sarcastically. "I'm so looking forward to another restful night of nightmares and exciting new wounds." But he had to turn away to hide a tiny smile as his heart was inexplicably lightened by the idea that he would not be alone in the cold house.

"You're not having the dreams, are you?" Fíli asked, leaning forward in a quick, smooth move, resting his forearms on his knees as he watched Bilbo.

"No," he admitted. "I don't remember any of my dreams at all." Fíli looked almost disappointed at that, and Bilbo hesitated a moment, but then sighed. "But I am feeling very odd these days. It's like there are thoughts in my head that aren't mine; someone else's memories knocking at a door and just waiting to rush in."

Fíli nodded furiously, getting up to pace the floor in front of the cast-iron stove, back and forth. "Exactly! And there's this - singing, perhaps, that I can almost hear sometimes!"

Bilbo opened his mouth to agree, but was surprised by the brass bell ringing outside the infirmary. Fíli seemed to deflate as Bilbo made his way toward the door, and Bilbo hesitated.

"Why don't you come along?" he suggested, not knowing why he was bothering. "You can lend a hand. Fetching and carrying is hard on this old leg of mine."

Fíli brightened, nearly prancing along in Bilbo's wake, and he stifled a smile at the reaction. The boy might be decades his senior, but he was no more mature than a tween Hobbit, to Bilbo's mind.

He set Fíli to running for him as he saw to patients, and the evening's chores flew by fast. Bilbo had to set two bones, which was always an agonising procedure, and Fíli's strength came in handy in holding the Dwarves steady as he saw to their injuries. He almost wondered why he hadn't taken an assistant before.

Bofur found his way back just before dark, looking considerably rounder than Bilbo had thought him before, and they let him in hastily. Bilbo closed up for the night just as the lantern lighter made his way by, gradually filling the street with the flickering lights that were more for the benefit of the patrols than the Dwarves who inhabited most of the city. Bilbo made a quick supper for three, marveling at the fact he even had enough place settings for that number, and listened to Bofur and Fíli discussing the books and parchments that Bofur had brought in under his tattered coat.

"No, that's a general form of King, not a specific name," Fíli said, pointing at a worn set of runes with a confident hand. "Is this a prophecy of some sort?"

"We're not certain," Bofur told him, shoving another volume toward the young scholar. "They say Gandalf himself wrote some of these."

"No, look," Bilbo objected, waving a spatula at them. "That's ridiculous. Gandalf is just a story! One of those things you tell children when they're frightened in a thunderstorm - that it's just Gandalf's fireworks in the heavens! For pity's sake, you can't believe he was someone real!"

"Where else do stories come from?" Bofur asked, eyes shining with amusement. "I imagine there once was a man called Gandalf - though whether he did half the things they say he did is doubtful. But our texts came from somewhere, even if we've lost track, and someone must have written them."

Bilbo turned back to the stove, shaking his head. That it should come to discussing Gandalf as if he'd been a real person! The Took would laugh at Bilbo Baggins now, putting up with such tales in his home. If he didn't mind these Dwarves, they would be believing in Elves next!

The two argued together the whole time he was cooking, though there was a friendliness to their tones that made Bilbo relax into the noise and tune out the words. It was surprisingly pleasant to have people in his kitchen, now that his body seemed to have stopped seeing them as potential threats. He piled all three plates high and set them on the table, frowning at the two with his arms crossed until they shamefacedly put the books and papers away and focused on their food.

"There's so much to read!" Fíli said, sounding awed.

"Are you finding any answers?" Bilbo asked, looking apprehensively at the dusty scrolls and books that were already threatening to take over his kitchen.

"Perhaps," Bofur said, grinning at Fíli. "If we can trust our translator here, it seems that all of the stories point to a king who will return in the darkest days. The Dwarves have had many kings, but few who seem likely to come back for us now that we are poor and desolate."

"It's probably Durin," Fíli said solemnly. "If he returned to his people six times, why not again? And yes," he said, turning to Bilbo expectantly, "I know what you will say. It's not rational to believe in an undying king who comes back to save us over and over. But as Bofur said, the stories come from somewhere."

"Lad," Bilbo said dryly, "you have the marks of two different deaths on your body. I think we're beginning to move past a search for merely rational answers." He drained his cup and poured himself a bit more wine, adding a splash to the other two glasses at the same time. "So, this Durin. Are we sure this is who we're looking for?"

"The only other candidate the old texts speculate about seems a long shot," Bofur chuckled, accepting the wine with a grateful nod. "They don't even use his name! Story goes that there was a king who led his people back to Erebor, if you can believe that, and tried to defeat a dragon armed with nothing more than a handful of old men and children. Died in the attempt, of course."

Bilbo blinked at that, something in the back of his mind starting to itch. "Why on earth would they think him a possibility?" he asked blankly. "He doesn't exactly sound like leadership material."

"We don't know!" Fíli put in, eyes shining with excitement. "It doesn't make any sense, really. Why send us a king who has already failed? Durin's the only logical choice."

"So how do we go about finding a mythical undying king of the Dwarves?" Bilbo asked. The two Dwarves glanced at one another and shrugged in unison.

"Keep reading," Fíli said firmly. "There must be something here that will help."

"Mahal will guide us," Bofur added, looking content.

"Some good your precious Maker has done us until now," Fíli said bitterly, stabbing at a bit of meat with his knife. "If Mahal were watching over us, we wouldn't be in this situation to begin with. I think we should stick to the books."

"No, hang on," Bilbo said, thinking back to what had been said earlier. "This Erebor you mentioned - what was that?"

"You don't know about Erebor?" Bofur looked shocked, shaking his head. "Lad, you really aren't a Dwarf, are you? Erebor is the last home of the Dwarves."

Bilbo felt his forehead wrinkle in lines of confusion. "I thought that was Erelin? Isn't this the last Dwarf city left, these past hundred years or so?"

"Erebor isn't a city," Fíli said, voice quiet and almost reverent. "Erebor is a kingdom. It's the last place Dwarves live free. They say it's under a mountain that nearly touches the sky, and the walls surrounding the lands of Erebor are so high and thick that an army of Men could make war of them for years and never leave a scratch on a single Dwarf."

"So why do Dwarves live here in Erelin at all, if such a place exists?" Bilbo asked skeptically. None of his (admittedly brief and undetailed) lectures on the history and culture of the Dwarves had ever mentioned Erebor - but it sounded familiar none the less.

"Would any of us live here by choice?" Bofur asked quietly. His eyes were sad and distant. "Surely you understand that Erelin is our prison, not our home. We work the mines and ships of Men because we have no choice, and they keep walls around the city because they know we would fly to Erebor if we could."

"We would if we knew where it was, that is," Fíli added. "It's something else we've lost. I hope there might be something in these books that will help us find it again!" His eyes were burning now, and Bilbo sighed a little. He remembered having that fire, in his youth. Those days were long since past. "If we find this King, Durin if you like, perhaps he can lead us back to the mountain. Perhaps he can lead us to freedom."

There came a ring at the brass doorbell, and Bilbo started, nearly knocking his plate over. "No-one should be out at this time!" he protested, but struggled to his feet, accepting the cane from Fíli's hand. The infirmary was darkened, and Bilbo could hardly make out a shape through the peephole. He swung the half-door open.

It was the human boy from a few days earlier, huddled close to the door to stay out of the rain. He looked thoroughly miserable, and had a thin coat wrapped around his shoulders tightly. Bilbo sighed.

"I'm closed for the night. Come back in the morning."

"Please!" the lad said quickly, quiet and desperate. "I can't! There's no time in the morning. The tide is so early - I don't dare miss the boats."

Bilbo looked him over, sharp eyes noting his thin frame and the flush staining his cheeks. "You don't look like you're dying, lad. What's so urgent?"

He held out his hand, where Bilbo's wrappings were still in place, though stained and torn into useless scraps. "I think it's taken sick. It hurts, and I cannot bend my fingers." He looked around, over his shoulder, and then slumped against the wall, looking worn down. "I can wait here until the morning if you like."

Bilbo cursed under his breath and slammed the top half of the door shut, then opened the whole thing together. "Come in and I'll see to it. Just this once."

The lad stared at him in shock, dark eyes wide, and Bilbo had to reach out and tug him in. A shock ran up his arm as he touched the boy, and Bilbo drew back, surprised and annoyed. The rain usually brought enough damp to the house to stop those damnable shocks, but they always took him by surprise when they happened. He closed the door behind the lad and turned to light the lamp, then limped over to the cupboard to get supplies. When he turned around, he was surprised to see the boy still huddled against the door, watching him warily. He beckoned impatiently.

"Into the light and let me see it, then."

The lad crept cautiously over, and held out his hand, keeping the rest of his body as far from Bilbo as possible. He was reminded suddenly of a puppy he had seen a the home of an unpleasant man in the Shire who was known for his foul temper. The dog shied away from all touches, even those of kind and gentle children, and looked ready to bolt at any moment. Indeed, as he glanced up at the wild hair and watchful dark eyes, Bilbo might have been looking at that puppy all over again. He peeled away the wrapping gently, hissing in sympathy as he saw the red, inflamed skin and felt the heat off the wound. His neat stitches had been half torn out, and the wound was far from clean.

"What's your name, lad?" he asked as he began to clean the cut, easing the torn threads away from the flesh.

"Don't have one," he murmured, never taking his eyes off Bilbo.

"Everyone has a name," Bilbo said distractedly. "I shan't tell on you."

"Foundlings don't," the boy insisted. Bilbo hummed a sympathetic note, and pressed deeply enough on the wound to make the boy yelp in pain.

"Sorry!" Bilbo said quickly. "It's a nasty one you have here. I can clean and bandage it, and give you some herbs to help fight the fever and infection, but you need to rest. Nothing that will stress the wound or cause it to tear further for at least a fortnight."

He laughed a little, quiet and despairing, and kept his distance from Bilbo. "You don't know what it's like on the ships. They don't care if you're hurt. Ropes and sails don't mind a bit of blood."

Bilbo knew that was true, and he knew that there was no real help for it, but he had to offer the advice. "If it gets bad again, come straight back and let me look after it, or you could lose the hand." He finished his work and set about re-wrapping the injury, taking extra care this time. The boy nodded silently, and snatched his hand back as soon as Bilbo let go, cradling it to himself. He kept himself huddled into the smallest shape he could manage, and Bilbo found it hard to estimate his age and weight as he went to gather the herbs the lad would need. He was a small thing for a Man, no taller than Fíli, and Bilbo supposed he might not have reached his full growth yet - or perhaps he never would, with the lack of nutrition and proper care that foundling children often received.

Something seemed very wrong in those thoughts, though, and Bilbo kept pausing and glancing over at the lad, who was now alternating between watching him carefully and looking over into the kitchen with wide, anxious eyes. The light and warmth streaming through the passageway were alluring, and Bilbo could hear the low rumble of voices and the occasional bright laugh floating in. The boy was staring at it almost hungrily, and Bilbo's heart gave an unexpected pang. The lad was not his responsibility. His Mission in Erelin was to look after the Dwarves; Men were meant to look after their own. And besides, he had already done his duty to the lad.

But his heart clenched at the thought of sending him away, and the buzzing, humming feeling in his head was nearly driving him mad. He looked at the lad again. There was no way this youngster could be tied to their cause, or their crisis, if that was a more accurate word. He shook his head at his own fancy, and pressed the herbs into the boy's uninjured hand.

"Boil that in water, half a handful at a time. Take it morning and evening until it's all gone, and come back if there's any pain or stiffness, right?" He went to put a friendly hand on the lad's shoulder, but he shied away, backing up until his back was against the wall. Bilbo hesitated again. There was something in that expression, in the fear in those dark eyes, that made him lose his nerve. He heaved a sigh. "Look, why don't you come in for a bit. There's food and drink, and you can stay until morning."

The boy swallowed hard, looking toward the kitchen with a longing that made Bilbo's throat hurt, but he shook his head. "I can't. I-" he hesitated, then threw open the door and darted out into the night, pausing halfway down Bilbo's path to look back with a fierce, desperate desire. "Thank you," he called quietly, and the end might have been a choked sob, and then he was gone. Bilbo let out a breath and closed the door slowly, feeling as though he had lost something important. The song in his head was melancholy, and he wished he could swat it away.

He made his way back to the kitchen thoughtfully, and the Dwarves looked up curiously.

"You were a long time," Bofur said curiously.

"Had to see to a patient's hand," Bilbo said morosely, sinking back into his seat with a groan. "Human lad. Very strange fellow. It's a crime how they're treated on those ships."

Fíli scoffed, eyes narrowing in anger as he turned back to his page. "Don't waste your pity on Men. They deserve whatever they do to each other, filthy bastards that they are." His mouth twisted into an unpleasant smirk. "You should have left him to his pain, Mr. Baggins. They'd do no better for one of us."

Bilbo turned away, looking out the window, and felt a rage in his veins. He had sometimes hated Men himself for their cruelty and lack of compassion, but this was the signal reason for his dislike. They had made the Dwarves unkind, made them into prisoners and criminals, until even a kind soul like Fíli could damn a child to suffering without blinking an eye. If there had been a god watching over the Dwarves, he had done them all a great disservice in letting them come under the power of Men.

Bofur stayed the night, happily stowed away in another of the rooms Fíli had cleaned out, and Bilbo woke to two voices screaming in fear and pain the next morning, before dawn broke. He huddled in his bed, stuffing his fingers into his ears, and waited until the screams had died away to listen carefully. They were talking in low voices above his head, clearly reassuring one another and comparing stories, and Bilbo left them to it. He half-floated in a dream state for a while, knowing all the while that he was almost awake, and tried to make sense of memories - dark, terrified eyes, and compassionate blue ones, and two figures who had been nearly inseparable. They half-faded when he woke, but the feeling of it remained, and he knew he had made a mistake the night before in letting the boy slip away.

Bofur and Fíli were quiet and pale when he saw them that morning, and both disappeared while he was seeing to patients. Bilbo took it easily enough. Dwarves seemed to come and go rather as they chose, and he was not about to fight them. It was midafternoon before Fíli reappeared, stalking up to the open half-door and flinging his arms over it sulkily. Bilbo was startled, looking at him. His nose was bloody, and one eye was already beginning to swell shut. He hauled himself to his feet.

"Get in a fight with a Man, did you?" he asked, squinting up at the tall Dwarf.

"Not hardly," Fíli said thickly, wincing as Bilbo started prodding at his injuries. "I went to find my uncle."

"Oh?" Bilbo asked, interested. "And what was he like?"

"A drunken lout!" Fíli said angrily. "He was deep in his cups before noon, and tried to tell me he had no idea who I was. Claimed at first his name wasn't even Thorin, until I pointed out that it was engraved on his door." He crossed his arms, fury barely contained. "I tried to ask him about himself, about what he knew about me and what I might have lost, and he did this!"

"Well," Bilbo said pragmatically, relieved to find that Fíli's nose was not broken, "I suppose that's one more avenue we don't have to explore. What did you say his name was?"

"Thorin," Fíli said, huffing angrily. "Thorin Oakenshield."

Bilbo's head felt like it had been struck by a bolt of lightning, and he dropped his cane as his hands flew to his head. Images rushed in, of dark hair and grey, of blue eyes, and a sword, and a stone that glittered like malice. He fumbled blindly until he found a wall he could lean against and tried to get his breath back, finally lifting his head to stare at Fíli.

"He's the one," Bilbo said, certain beyond reason. "He's the king."

* * *

This chapter took a wee while longer, but wound up a bit longer, so I think it all works out in the end!

Thank you guys so much for the lovely comments and support. I'm utterly taken with this world, and I'm so very glad to hear that there's interest out there. I mean, I would keep writing it if I were the only one reading - but it's so very much nicer to be able to share it!


	5. O Truth Unchanged, Unchanging

"What do you mean, he's the king?" Fíli asked, staring blankly at Bilbo. "I've just said he's an out of control drunk! He threw me out of his home, and near enough fell over his own feet doing it!"

"I don't know!" Bilbo said angrily, cradling his head in his hands. It ached fiercely. "I just know he is! He's the one who is meant to take you out of this place!"

Fíli shook his head dismissively. "If Durin has come back to us, why would he have come in the form of a drunken, angry Dwarf? Thorin has no armies, no followers - I doubt there is one Dwarf who will even speak to him in the streets! How could he ever lead us?"

Bilbo sighed, yanking the door open. It was opening much more easily these days than it had in many years, having been opened so many times of late. Fíli stalked inside, one hand going to his rapidly swelling eye, and Bilbo retrieved his cane and made for the medicine cupboard to find ointments and remedies to apply to the lad's face. "I cannot tell you that," he said grumpily. "I don't know anything about Durin and Erebor and the rest. All I know is that Thorin Oakenshield is the king. You're going to have to bring him here, I think."

"Why, so he can beat me in front of company?" Fíli asked, pressing his lips tightly together as Bilbo applied the salve, and then shaking his head as Bilbo drew his hand away. "He is unreasonable! It will do us no good to speak to him here."

Bilbo flung up his hands in exasperation. "Look at the pattern, boy! You came here, and then you began to remember, to dream of things that you shouldn't have any memory of. Bofur came with an odd sensation that he should be here, and then he began to remember. I don't understand why it's happening, but clearly there is something about this place that is helping you all to piece things together. If anything will make Thorin change his ways and discover who he's meant to be, surely it needs to be whatever has helped you in the same way!"

Fíli scowled, his fingers tapping an angry rhythm on the tabletop, and he gave a grudging nod. "I will try. Perhaps Bofur will come with me and add his voice - and his arms, if need be!"

Bilbo nodded and moved away to tidy up his supplies, but shot Fíli a sideways glance. "I heard, in the night. Both of you were shouting. Was it more of the same?"

Fíli wrapped his arms around himself slowly, nodding, but he didn't look at Bilbo. "It's mostly faded now, but it was so very cold. I thought I must have fallen into icy water, and I could not swim or find the light. When I woke, my hands were blue and shaking." He held them up, and Bilbo looked at them appraisingly, but could see nothing wrong with them beyond nails that had been chewed down to stumps. "And look - the mark from yesterday is fading, too." Indeed it was. As Fíli tugged at the clothes around his neck, Bilbo saw with relief that the bruise that had been so dark and angry the day before was lightening, taking on green and yellow hues at the edges, just like a normal bruise would in the process of healing.

"But the scar remains?"

Fíli nodded. "It is unchanged." He draped the fabric back in place, shrugging his shoulders uncomfortably. "Three times now, I have dreamed of different deaths, and each of them felt real. How is it possible?"

"I don't know, lad," Bilbo said, both sympathetic and annoyed - the later because he was growing very weary of giving the same answer again and again. He did not know anything, and it was more than a little vexing to be expected to have all the answers. He wasn't even having the dreams.

Fíli sighed, and stared down at one ragged thumbnail. "Bofur dreamed of icy water, too, and his hands were as cold as my own. It is almost as though we were remembering the same death."

"Look, unless Dwarves have some miraculous healing powers we Hobbits have never heard about, you haven't actually died at all," Bilbo said, a trifle snappish. "It's perplexing, but you are alive and well." He thought of going on, a small rant springing quickly to mind on the overdramatic tendencies of Dwarves in general, and the value of a peaceful life, but he was interrupted by a ring of the bell. It was getting to be something of a regular occurrence. He pushed past Fíli with a sigh and went to the door. The kind old watchmaker was there, and Bilbo smiled at him, feeling his annoyance fade. The old Dwarf had always been kind to him, particularly just after the trouble with his leg; it was he who had crafted the replacement watch and given it as a gift, when Bilbo's own father's watch had been destroyed.

"Good morning, Master Balin," he said cheerfully, already rummaging around for a new container of the salve that worked so well to soothe the old Dwarf's eyes. "Gone through the last lot in rather a hurry, I see! You must be doing good business indeed!"

But there was no smile on the old Dwarf's lined face now, and his kind eyes looked closer to tears than to the twinkle Bilbo knew of old. He shook his head slowly, long white beard wagging. "Oh, no, lad," he said quietly. "I'm afraid there's very little good business afoot anywhere just now."

Bilbo felt the now-familiar spark and fizz begin in his head, and watched with trepidation as Balin put a hand to his head, pushing his hair aside to show a thin, jagged scar running across the whole length of his skill on one side, and Bilbo swallowed in sympathy.

"Do you remember how you took that wound?" he asked gently. Balin eyed him steadily.

"It came upon me in the night as I slept," he said, almost conversationally. "I dreamed of a sword in the hand of a creature that was like no Dwarf or Man I had ever seen - nor Hobbit, either - and a blow that should have ended my life. I thought I could see the mark when I woke, but my eyes are not what they once were."

Bilbo nodded, opening the door. "Come in, please. We'll explain what we can, though there's precious little we know."

"We?" Balin asked.

"You are not the only Dwarf to suffer such strange dreams in recent days," Bilbo said wryly. "This is Fíli. I think you'll find you have a great deal in common."

Balin stared at Fíli, eyes narrowed in concentration. "You look familiar, boy," he muttered. "But there is something missing."

"I've been saying that all along!" Fíli said cheerfully, and bowed in respectful greeting before offering to walk the old Dwarf through to the kitchen and put the tea on. Bilbo shooed them off, feeling a headache throbbing at his temples and wanting to see to it before it worsened. How many Dwarves were affected by this strange malady? Would he wind up with the whole city on his doorstep, all with symptoms he could neither explain nor treat? He fantasised for a moment about writing up the whole case and sending it to the Took as a referral, washing his hands of the whole matter - but then, that was madness, because Bilbo was clearly involved, too. He might not have the dreams or the scars, but he was remembering things he had no right to know, and there was the small matter of the buzzing in his head, and of the song he could neither reach nor dismiss from his mind.

Perhaps he was just going mad. That might almost be preferable.

He listened with half an ear as Fíli told Balin what they knew so far, little as it was, and Bilbo swallowed a tonic for his headache and tidied up the infirmary as he waited for it to take effect. Finally, the pain dulled and faded, and he made his way through to the kitchen. Fíli glanced up quickly as he came in, a strange melancholy fleeting over his face as he saw who it was - like he had been expecting someone else entirely - but then he flashed Bilbo a brilliant little smile that made him smile back automatically. Young people, Bilbo thought, and poured himself tea.

"So," Balin said evenly, looking at Fíli and Bilbo through narrowed eyes. "I hear from the lad that you are looking for a long-dead King, with the help of the forbidden cults, and that you hope this King will lead you to the legendary kingdom of Erebor and bring us all to freedom. This is correct?"

"I don't know that any of it is correct," Bilbo said sheepishly, scratching his head, "but it's all we have so far. We don't know how to explain the rest." It all sounded more than a little ridiculous when spoken in such reasoned tones.

Balin leaned back in his chair, a little smile playing around the corners of his mouth, and Bilbo saw the familiar twinkle return to his eyes. "Laddie, I have been looking for one I could follow since I was no older than little Fíli here."

Fíli gave a wordless squawk of protest, but they both ignored it. Balin nodded at Bilbo.

"What else shall we do? Must we wait for death to come on us slowly, here in Erelin? In the days that went before, Dwarves would have been ashamed to live as we do, and to die as we do - old and broken, in our beds, waiting for the end. Better a quick, sharp blow than this slow and dishonourable fading."

"Then you are with us?" Fíli asked eagerly, leaning forward and taking hold of the old Dwarf's forearm.

"I am with the King," he said easily, and patted Fíli's hand. "As soon as we find him."

It was a relief beyond what Bilbo had expected, and he sagged a little in his chair, feeling some of the weight lifted from his shoulders. Balin was old and wise, and much more suitable as a leader for this whole venture than a middle-aged Hobbit from the Shire could ever be. He poured more tea for all of them, and let the Dwarves talk about war and honour and nobility, while he considered what to make for tea, and wondered how many he should plan on feeding.

Bofur and Oin came by before the afternoon was up, bringing yet more books and papers, and Bilbo let them in without so much as a sigh. It was strange, but he was almost growing accustomed to their presence, until their absence seemed like the strange thing. He rummaged through the icebox until he found suitable meats and vegetables for a dinner for five, or possibly more, and set about preparing them, talking to the Dwarves as he did so.

"Fíli, I think you and Bofur should go back to Thorin and try to convince him to come here. Promise him food if it will help."

"What's happened?" Bofur asked, staring at Fíli's bruised face with undisguised interest. "Family reunion not go as planned?"

"We'll talk on the way," Fíli said ruefully, hauling himself to his feet and dragging Bofur with him. "We have a supposedly legendary king to fetch."

Bilbo heaved a sigh of relief that they were on their way with plenty of daylight left, and set to work in earnest, eager to get dinner preparations made before the evening rush on his infirmary. Balin and Oin fell in together like old friends, comparing dreams and scars, and then continuing on to talk about everything under the sun, it seemed. It was a slightly awkward conversation, with Oin's deafness and Balin's terrible eyesight, and something felt incredibly wrong as he watched them, two old Dwarves together. They were not meant to be infirm and faded this way. They were meant to be warriors, despite their age, ready to follow Thorin on his mad quest for - for what? The idea petered out, losing any coherence it had carried, and Bilbo stabbed a potato in frustration.

It was bad enough that he did not share the dreams the rest carried, or the scars that at least served as some sort of proof that they were experiencing something real. All Bilbo had were nagging senses of confusion, and snatches of memory, and strange ideas that did not seem to come from his own brain. He racked his brain as he set the stew to simmering, trying to think of what he saw in his own dreams, and there was nothing. Just green, like endless peaceful fields rolling away under the sun, and light - a light more rich and beautiful than any his eyes had ever seen, even in his youth in the Shire. It was nothing solid to cling to, and the feeling of peace that washed over him at the memory vanished as soon as he opened his eyes.

He excused himself to the infirmary as evening began to creep upon them, though he was not sure whether the elderly Dwarves had even heard him. They seemed to be getting along like old friends, chuckling over memories from their youths. Bilbo hoped that the nameless lad from the previous night might come by again. It was likely enough that he had damaged his hand on his ship, and if he came round, Bilbo was determined to sweep him inside and bring him into the gathering in the kitchen. He knew it was unlikely, but the memory of the boy had been bothering him all day, and it seemed like he might somehow be involved in whatever was going on with them.

There were enough needy visitors to keep him busy, and Bilbo watched carefully for symptoms of the reported plague, but there were none to be seen. He did sigh, though, when his last guest sidled up to the door, looking uncommonly nervous.

"I told you to buy a pair of gloves, lad," he admonished. The Dwarf shook his head frantically, and leaned in close, not raising his voice above a whisper.

"No, sir! It's not that! It's -" he hesitated, looking frantically torn, and leaned in even closer. "I think there's something wrong in my head, and if they find out, the Men, they'll have me put away! I don't want to go to the Asylum, sir! You have to help me!"

Bilbo looked at him intently, and felt the weight on his shoulders grow. "You're having strange dreams," he said tiredly, and rubbed at his eyes. "Memories that don't seem to belong to you? That sort of thing?"

"Oh, yes, sir!" His voice was openly awed, and he stared at Bilbo with his mouth hanging open. "You're an amazing Healer, sir, to be able to tell all of that at a look!"

"Inside," Bilbo said wearily, and swung the door open with a practiced hand that worked the stiff bolts with ease, clearing his injured leg with just an inch to spare. "Kitchen's just through there. You can meet the rest of my collection." The Dwarf nodded gratefully and started away, tragically bad haircut marking him easily even in the gloom of the infirmary. Bilbo called after him. "What's your name?"

"Ori, sir," he said, bowing deeply two or three times.

"Fine, then," Bilbo said crossly, waving him off with an impatient hand. "Stop bobbing about, then, and go on through." It was a bit terse, but Bilbo was beginning to feel a little panicky. Forget the supposed plague at the docks - he was having something of a plague on his hands already, and it seemed to be spreading fast.

So he was almost relieved when Fíli and Bofur returned without Thorin, as five Dwarves in his kitchen were rather enough for him to be getting on with. He would have to request more supplies from Governance at this rate, and hope they didn't get curious as to what had happened. But dinner that night was a surprisingly delightful affair. Ori wasn't much older than Fíli, as it turned out, and they struck up a friendship very quickly. Oin and Balin were still reminiscing about the good old days, before Men had begun truly oppressing the Dwarves, and Bilbo was amazed by some of their stories. The Erelin of more than a century before sounded like an entirely different city, where Dwarves were freer and kinder, and the sun did not have to struggle through a century of accumulated filth and smog to reach the streets.

"Such a shame," he found himself saying, shaking his head. "To have come to this? There is nothing of that joy left in Erelin now. I have been sorry for coming here since the day I stepped through the Gate."

"Oh, now, that's not true, laddie," Balin said gently. "But I think you have missed a great deal, alone in your house here. There is still hope in Erelin, and joy, and kindness - but you will not find it in your dusty books. It is in the hearts of the Dwarves who still live here. We have not all turned to stone."

And Bilbo knew that was true. He had known it all along, of course, and that he was shutting himself away from all of that. He had been little more than a ghost for the last nine years, haunting his cold empty house out of fear and anger, and resentment at the loss of freedom that came with his injury.

Now, it was as if life was coming back to him - forcing it's way back, more like, though he wasn't fighting hard any longer. The Dwarves had brought warmth and companionship to his home, and to Bilbo's utter shock, there was laughter, too. Bofur told jokes that had them all roaring with laughter, slapping their knees and throwing their heads back - and Bilbo found himself laughing, too. It was an odd, creaky thing at first - more a memory of laughter than the thing itself - but then it burst forth as full and free as any of theirs, and Bilbo was amazed. He knew he had not laughed, not beyond a sarcastic chuckle, since he had left the Shire, and it was almost hard to stop again. His sides hurt, and his eyes watered, but Bilbo felt like he had rid himself of some vile thing.

He was sorry that the human lad never came back, because he thought he might have done well to see some genuine happiness in the world, but the evening came to a close without another summons at Bilbo's door.

"So," he finally said, stretching his arms and yawning. "Now we are a company of six."

"Seven, if we ever fetch Thorin back," Fíli said, much more cheerful now that he'd had a good meal. He and Bofur had returned close-lipped, and said nothing beyond a shake of their heads in response to the enthusiastic questions.

"We'll try again tomorrow," Bofur promised. "Early, I think, before he's had a chance to do much drinking."

Fíli sighed, dropping his face into his hands for a moment. "We shall have to bring him back tied in a sack."

"Never fear, my prince," Bofur said easily. "We're strong enough to manage one infuriated Dwarf who would be King, aren't we?"

"How's that?" Bilbo asked sharply, leaning forward. "Why did you call him prince?"

Bofur looked startled, thinking back over his own words, and his brow furrowed. "I have no idea."

It was almost a nice change, hearing those words out of another's mouth.

The Dwarves were all insistent that they remembered nothing from their dreams, or anywhere else that could not be explained, but Bilbo had his doubts. Fíli, at the very least, was being changed by the dreams, Bilbo knew - and in more than his body. He stood taller than he once had, and not with the odd stiffness of a Dwarf who had been brought up by scholars; more like a boy growing into himself. If he was sometimes more solemn and quiet, gazing at the flickering light of a lamp with a distant expression, then he was also more prone to laugh deeply and heartily, without the shallow veneer of sophistication he had worn when Bilbo first met him. He seemed older and younger all at once, and Bilbo wondered who he might be, when it was all over.

Fíli seemed to be looking for something, Bilbo was beginning to notice. He doubted the lad knew it himself, from the half-distracted way he would glance around and then go back to the task at hand. But it seemed to Bilbo that he was constantly turning to share a look or a word with someone at his side who was not there, or sending a hand blindly into the air beside him, half expecting to meet another at his side, and finding only emptiness. Indeed, the other Dwarves almost seemed to see that emptiness, too, and shied away from it just as if there had been someone else there.

They went to bed that evening, filling yet more rooms in Bilbo's house, and he told himself firmly that he would have to send them away to their own homes well before dark the next night. They could not very well leave after eventide, though, for fear of the patrols, and he would not have them arrested. Not now.

The house almost seemed warmer that night, and Bilbo slept more easily than he had in years - at least until his rest was broken by five screaming, thrashing dwarves, like the world's hairiest and most annoying dawn chorus. He was sympathetic to their plight, truly he was, but it was difficult to remain so at such an hour of day. And then, to add insult to injury, they all went back to sleep, leaving him awake and stumbling through his morning routine to the gentle chorus of snores from the rooms above. He had finished with the morning's patients before the Dwarves came trooping down to eat breakfast.

They exchanged horror stories over breakfast, showing off new scars that looked like battle wounds, for the most part. Bilbo scowled at the eggs he was cooking. The lingering image of green and light from his dreams did nothing to help him understand the situation any further, or to make him feel like a proper part of their little company. He ate quietly, feeling irrationally annoyed, and shooed Ori and Balin off to work with impatient gestures.

Fíli came around behind Bilbo and clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, shaking him a bit. "Well, shall we?"

"Shall we what?" He blinked up at the tall young Dwarf, who chuckled.

"Head off to see Thorin? It's not far, but I expect it'll take a bit longer with your leg." He frowned down at the mangled limb in question. "Or perhaps we should find a cab instead? They'll carry you anywhere, I'm sure, if you tell them it's for medical purposes."

Bilbo blinked at him, confused beyond words. "Fíli, I'm not going anywhere. You and Bofur are meant to bring him back."

"Ah, but how well did that go yesterday?" Bofur asked, looking regretful and slyly amused in turns. "No, I think you'd best come with us. The chances of success seem much higher with you at our side."

"I don't go out," Bilbo said shortly. "I don't leave the house. I'm certainly not going after a violent drunkard of a Dwarf!"

"That's just absurd," Fíli said reasonably. "Look, you won't be in any danger. We'll be there to look after you!"

"No!" Bilbo said, beginning to feel angry. "No, no. I won't do it. This is where I am, and this is where I will stay." He thumped his cane down hard on the wooden floor in emphasis, and the others startled.

"It's not so much to ask, is it?" Bofur pleaded, eyes wide and disarming. "Come with us - just to talk to him, and then we'll come straight back again. For all we know, you're the key to all of this! We've got to wake him up again, and you're the one who seems to be doing it."

"What part of the word no do Dwarves find it impossible to understand?" Bilbo roared. His blood was rushing in his ears, hands curled into fists; the thought of stepping outside his door was too much to bear. "Haven't I done enough for you? Haven't I already given you enough?" He spun around to stare at each of them in turn, feeling something wild within him. "I gave you everything! You took my heart, and you sent me home alone!" He stalked closer to Fíli and poked him hard in the chest with a finger, rocking the lad back on his heels. "You made me BURY you! I watched them pile rocks on your graves, you and Kíli and Thorin, and I had to go home again after that and live a life, and do you have any idea how difficult that was? Do you have the first inkling how much I wished-" his breath caught in a sob, choking off his words, and he had to turn away and struggle to compose himself, breathing heavily. The three Dwarves were breathing loudly, too, and the atmosphere in the room had taken on an uncomfortably thick tension.

"Bilbo?" Bofur called softly after a moment. "What did that mean? How have you buried him?"

Bilbo shrugged, feeling utterly worn out, drained by the moment. "I don't know. It was clear for just a moment, and I still know it was true - but I have no memory of that."

Fíli had dropped back to slump against a wall, and now slid quietly down it until he was curled in on himself, head buried against his knees and breathing deeply. Shock, Bilbo thought, and started forward. "Fíli, lad?" he called, kneeling down and placing a hand on the Dwarf's knee.

Fíli raised his head, and Bilbo was startled to see that his face was streaked with tears. They were falling steadily through red-rimmed eyes, and Fíli didn't even seem aware that he was weeping.

"What's wrong?" Oin called loudly. Bilbo shook his head. One more thing he didn't know.

"You said," Fíli whispered, sounding half broken. "You buried us. Me, and Thorin, and Kíli."

Bilbo nodded slowly. "But I don't know what I meant. I don't know who Kíli was."

"I do," Fíli said quietly, and let the tears continue to fall freely. "He's my brother. Kíli is the thing that's been missing all along."

Bilbo's heart gave a mighty thump, and he smiled down at Fíli, patting his knee gently. "See, I knew you'd figure it out!"

But Fíli was shaking his head wildly, half-crazed. "No, you don't understand! I forgot him! I forgot that I even had a brother! And now I can't remember his face, or his voice, or what he was like - just that he was my brother, and that I have been looking for him every day of my life."

Bofur knelt down too, his eyes so gentle, and took hold of Fíli's hand. "So we'll find him. If you're here, he's got to be here too, somewhere." He clasped Fíli's hand tight between both of his own, and smiled kindly. "We will find him." It sounded like a prayer.

* * *

Not to worry - we'll get to meet Thorin in the next chapter! And it's not so much of a secret to us where Kili is, but let's see how long it takes them to work things out, shall we? :D

Seriously, my most sincere and devout thanks to everyone who's been reading! I have no words to thank you properly.


	6. Commands Our Flesh to Dust

"So we really do have to go back and see Thorin," Fíli said after a while. They had given him time and space to get control of his emotions, and he had pulled himself together admirably. Bilbo thought absently that if Bofur's words had been true, if Fíli had once been a prince, then there were times it shone through in his bearing and mannerisms. This was such a time. "He must know what's happened to my brother."

"Is he, though?" Bofur asked, honest curiosity in his tone. "Is he your brother here and now?"

"What does that mean?" Fíli asked, a little dangerously. His eyes narrowed, and Bilbo made a mental note not to touch lightly on the subject of this missing brother. "Of course Kíli is my brother. What else would he be?"

Bofur sat down heavily, and the rest drew in close, gradually taking seats at the table. Oin drew as close as he could, his hearing not suited for quiet conversations. "It's becoming obvious that what we are experiencing is not normal. We remember deaths we haven't died, and lives we haven't lived - but I think we must have." One hand crept beneath the sleeve of his tattered shirt, rubbing at the rough scars on his arm. "We have lived before, and died before, and now we are waking up from the dream that was this life."

"I suppose that makes as much sense as any other explanation," Bilbo said hesitantly. He eased himself onto a chair, propping his cane up against the table. "I don't have the same dreams, though. Maybe it's different for Hobbits than Dwarves?"

"This isn't a common thing for Dwarves, either," Oin cut in loudly, looking back and forth between them skeptically. "We're not in the habit of living over and over, lad."

"Aren't we?" Fíli asked, tipping his head to one side. A thick golden braid slipped from behind his ear to dangle freely in midair, swinging back and forth a little as he moved. "Don't the old legends say that the Fathers of the Dwarves returned to their people again and again - that Durin returned seven times?"

Bofur grinned cheekily at him, nudging him with an elbow. "And here I thought you were too rational and learned to believe in the old stories!"

Fíli's ears coloured, and he looked down quickly. "I've been reading the accounts you brought, looking for anything that might help us make sense of this. I'm not saying I believe all of it - Mahal and the rest - but it's a story that's been handed down for thousands of years. Maybe there is some truth to it."

"We're not Durin, lad," Oin said dourly. "None had best be looking to us for guidance."

"So," Bilbo mused, pressing his fingertips together beneath his nose, "what does that make us? Why has this happened to us? And why are you just starting to remember now?"

Bofur pointed at him, and Bilbo was surprised. "You're the one waking us up. It wasn't until we met you that any of this began. I'll wager there are others out there, too, just waiting to wake up and remember who they are." His eyes became a little distant, thoughtful and weary, and he glanced at Fíli. "Nothing like you, lad, but I have this odd feeling I'm waiting for someone to come back, too. Family or friend, I don't know, but we are none of us meant to be alone the way we have been."

"Then what did you mean, before, that Kíli mightn't be my brother?" Fíli demanded, dropping a fist to the table with a solid thump.

"Well, did you ever have a brother? Here, in this life, I mean?"

"I- no," Fíli admitted, brow furrowed in thought. "Not that I recall. I was very young when I entered Durin's Academy, and I remember very little of my life before that. Glimpses of my mother, I suppose, and another Dwarf who seemed very tall indeed, to my young eyes."

"So, what is to say that we are all the people we remember being?" Bofur pressed, leaning forward. "You are no prince now, and yet I recall that you were my prince, and I swore fealty to your family. Perhaps this Kíli is still somewhere here, in Erelin, but there is nothing to say that he is born of your same parents."

Something tugged unnervingly at the back of Bilbo's mind, and he frowned, reaching up to scratch his head. It was almost as though he did know something about this missing brother - something that told him, beyond a doubt, that he was there in the city. But he couldn't put a face to the name, nor anything more than a vague sense of life and joy, ill-ended. He shook his head sharply.

"Well, what are we to do? Do we beard the lion in his den and drag this Thorin out?" The words came out sharper than he meant.

"Yes!" Fíli insisted, face growing set in stern lines. It made him look twice his age. "If he is the king you think him, we need him; if he might know anything about my brother, I need him twice as much."

Bilbo looked at him closely for a moment, this lad who was already a stranger to the Dwarf he had been when he walked through Bilbo's door less than a week before. He stood taller, a heavier weight on his shoulders, and yet, as Bilbo looked at him, he felt like he was seeing half a Dwarf. He truly was missing a part of his heart, and there was only one solution to that problem. Heaving a sigh, Bilbo stood up, grasping his cane with a determination he did not feel, and feeling his heart begin to beat twice as fast.

"Then we should go, now. Before we are at risk of being out after dark."

They gaped up at him, and Bilbo enjoyed a tiny moment of delight at having his head stand above theirs as they all sat around his table.

"You just shouted at us," Bofur pointed out hesitantly. "About how you don't leave this house. And now you're planning to go?"

"Yes." Bilbo fiddled with the brass end of his cane, looking at the pattern worn into the metal by nearly a decade of use. "I have been safe here a good long while. And I don't particularly want to leave, you understand. But," he looked up, directly at Fíli, and felt a surge of compassion that he had not allowed himself in many years, "I am a Healer. I took an Oath to help wherever I could, and the Dwarves of Erelin are my responsibility."

They nodded solemnly, without celebration, but there was a depth of gratitude in their eyes that Bilbo treasured. He thumped his cane on the floor a few times. "That's quite enough lollygagging! Up you get, my Dwarves, and let us find this Thorin."

"I think we should gather some backup on the way," Bofur declared, hopping up and moving with a startling alacrity. "I know a Dwarf who's more than a bit handy in a tight spot. He's promised to keep anyone from beating my head in, should it be necessary."

"It may be necessary," Fíli said, a touch gloomily. "Bothering my uncle for a third time, and with extra company this time? He's not likely to take it well."

"Right, then," Bofur said, rubbing his hands together, and clapping his horrible hat onto his head. "Oin, go back to the Holdfast. If anyone comes by in need, do what you can for them. I'll be back before dark." They dropped fisted hands on one another's shoulders in a brief and semi-violent farewell, and then Bofur and Fíli were waiting on Bilbo's porch, looking at him expectantly.

He walked to the door with as much certainty as he could muster, but found himself hung up on the doorstep. It had been nine years since he had stepped so much as a foot out of the huge, chilly house, and his throat and chest seemed to tighten as he faced it now. His heart hammered loudly, and Bilbo found his hand slippery on the handle of his cane. The Dwarves were watching him sympathetically, and Bilbo closed his eyes. He remembered, so very vividly, the moment he had stepped out of his door to make the journey to Erelin, and the mingled excitement and terror that had nearly kept him inside forever. And then, as fast as thought, that memory was overlaid with another - one of a round, green door, and a flight made into the wide world without hesitation or hindrance on the doorstep. He had stepped out into the world then, and returned a different Hobbit; his heart had never been the same.

His foot hit the rough weave of the mat with a solid thud, and the second followed, and Bilbo Baggins closed his door and walked out into Erelin.

"It's not far from here to where my friend lives," Bofur assured him, as he and Fíli took up positions on either side of Bilbo. It was almost like having bodyguards, and Bilbo breathed a bit easier, surrounded by such friendly warmth. "We can hail a ride from there if needs be."

Bilbo just nodded, jerkily, and tried to concentrate on breathing evenly as he moved farther and farther from his place of refuge. His friends kept quiet as they moved, and mostly served to shield him from curious eyes. Bilbo had watched the streets around his house for nearly a decade, seeing them change and grow ever more dingy and derelict, but still - he had lived in one of the nicer parts of Erelin, where the houses were sturdily built and well maintained. It only took a few minutes of walking to find himself in a part of the city he had never seen - one which looked very different to what he had known.

The houses in his part of the city were constructed of brick and wood, and had tall glass windows and broad porches, with wide chimneys stretching up above the roofs. There was none of that to be seen in the darker parts of the city. Here, the structures almost seemed to have been hewn from the ground and the sides of the hills that made up Erelin - but these were not in the comfortable style that Hobbits had fancied for so long. They were awkward, almost threatening things, piled high and dark on all sides, crowding in on one another. Tall structures rose higher than the houses like Bilbo's, and he could see small windows hewn in the rock far above street level, like tenement buildings in the earth itself. It was distinctly alien, and Bilbo kept close to his companions. There were reasons he disliked being a Hobbit in Erelin.

Finally, just as his leg was beginning to throb, Bofur stopped and crept over to an unmarked door that looked the same as all the rest, to Bilbo's eye. He gave a complicated little knock, then stepped back a pace, waving to Bilbo and Fíli to keep their distance. The door was flung open with such sudden violence that Bilbo jumped in fright, and Fíli grabbed his shoulder for moral support.

The Dwarf who apparently lived behind the dull grey door stepped out, hands bunched in tight fists, looking ready for a fight, and Bilbo stifled a groan. He knew this Dwarf! The bald head and tattoos were almost enough to make him certain, but it was the dingy white of his own neat bandages on the Dwarf's arm that settled the matter for him. He had patched the fellow up after a bad brawl a few days earlier, and received nothing but disdain and veiled threats of violence in return. The Dwarf scowled at Bofur.

"It's not a place or an hour for you to be abroad, Delver," he growled, but there was a respect in the words that surprised Bilbo. He looked to Fíli in confusion.

"Delver's what they're called - the religious leaders," Fíli hissed in a nearly inaudible whisper. "Refers to them seeking the truth in the dark places - and also the fact that they live deep underground. Close to the stone, close to Mahal - that's the thinking." He gave a shrug, as though it didn't matter to him.

Bilbo nodded, but his eyebrows went up a bit in surprise. He wouldn't have taken this scrapper for the religious type.

"Dwalin," Bofur said, grinning up at the man and offering him the sign of Mahal; Dwalin returned it, but was watching the streets carefully as he did so. "I'm here for your protection. We're about to go speak with a fellow who has a bit of a habit of making his visitors feel unwelcome, and I'd rather not wind up with my ears around my ankles."

Dwalin grunted, and twisted his hands so that his brass knuckledusters glinted in the dim light. "Awfully impious, hitting a Delver. I'd best see to his spiritual wellbeing." A hint of amusement glinted in his eyes, and he lifted his chin sharply, gesturing to Bilbo and Fíli. "Who are these, then?"

"Fíli, at your service," Fíli offered, bowing in the traditional manner; Dwalin followed suit, staring at them closely, and didn't break eye contact even as he bent down. "And this is Mister Baggins, a Hobbit Healer of great repute."

"We've met," Bilbo said, a little short. "How is the arm, then?"

Dwalin's hand went to his injury, but he didn't look down. "I have known you in another time," he said thoughtfully. "When we were not as now."

Fíli gave a startled gasp, breathing in sharply, and Bofur grabbed Dwalin's sleeve in surprise. Bilbo just rolled his eyes.

"Should I even be surprised any longer? It seems I am doomed to have known every Dwarf in the city in some other life!" He eyed Dwalin, shaking his head. "You might have been a little kinder when last we met, given this supposed prior acquaintance."

"I did not remember it then," Dwalin rumbled, but Bilbo thought he looked a bit ashamed. "Nor do I remember it in full, now - but you are familiar to me from a greener time, and if you require my protection, I will give it."

He shut his door behind him and joined them, taking up a position behind them, and Bilbo had to repeatedly remind himself that this was a friend. He seemed to loom over them, and Bilbo tried to take it as comfort rather than threat.

"How far is it to this place?" Bilbo asked, feeling his knee begin to protest the strain of dragging his mangled leg through motions it was unaccustomed to making.

"Maybe a quarter of an hour on foot," Fíli reported. He looked worriedly at Bilbo. "That will hurt you, won't it? Here-" he pushed them to a stop, and darted off toward the wider main streets.

"What's the matter with it?" Dwalin asked bluntly, staring at Bilbo's leg. The damage could not be seen through his trousers, but it was evident in the way he stood and moved, and the cane was something of a dead giveaway. "Were you born mishewn?"

"Of course not!" Bilbo snapped, glaring up at the huge Dwarf. "I had a run-in with a very angry Dwarf who had a personal grudge against Hobbits. I'm afraid he yelled all sorts of abusive things before tossing me through a window." He shuddered at the memory, suddenly feeling like he was back there, huddled on the ground in agony as Dwarves watched on, some pulling his attacker away, others hurrying to offer what help they could. The leg had broken on impact, white bone pushing up through muscle and skin, and the glass had cut deeply. Bilbo had thought, then, that he would die there in a pool of his own blood, agony racing through every nerve. If it had been one of his patients who had turned up in the infirmary looking like this, he probably would have taken the leg off; he knew it was beyond his ability to heal. But he could not remove his own leg, and there was no-one he trusted to help him. He had wound up trapped in his own mangled body, and then in his house, cut off from what life and companionship might have been found even in this dark, dirty city.

He shook his head, pushing all of that away, and stared stonily up at Dwalin. "So I don't want to hear about the evils of Men from you, you understand? It was clear you had little love for Halflings, even when you needed treatment at my hands, and Dwarves are far from blameless in the ills done to others."

Dwalin tilted his head, acknowledging the accusation, but Bilbo thought there was a sadness there that he had not expected. He put a fist to his broad chest, above his heart, and inclined his head solemnly to Bilbo. "You have my word. If ever we find the Dwarf who has caused you this harm, I will make him pay for the injury in kind." His eyes were very sad when he looked up, and the deep voice dropped to a quiet rumble. "I would have protected you, if I had known."

Part of Bilbo could not help but wonder what it was this Dwarf remembered of him from those greener times, that made such a fierce and unfriendly-seeming fellow so kind toward him now. He would not ask, though, as the greater part of him was somehow terrified of what those memories might contain. He nodded awkwardly instead, fidgeting with his cane, and wondering where Fíli had gotten to.

That question, at least, was answered quickly as a little black coach rattled up beside them, and Fíli popped his head out, motioning to the others to join him. Bilbo accepted assistance in climbing up into the dim confines of the transport, breathing heavily through the pain it caused him, and rested his head against the thinly padded cushion of the seatback. Fíli leaned forward to give directions as Bofur and Dwalin squeezed into the coach, making for a rather tight fit.

The coach rattled forward, pulled by two steady little ponies, and Bilbo was relieved to find the ride surprisingly smooth. For all of the disrepair and squalor of Erelin, it had to be said that the Dwarves knew their way with stone, and the streets were all paved with such smooth exactness that there was scarcely a flaw to be found. It was a quiet ride, all of them lost in their own thoughts, and Bilbo kneaded the muscles of his leg, willing them not to cramp up with the brief rest. The windows in the coach were small and dingy with the dirt of the city, and he could make out little more than flashes of light and dark outside, and the sounds of various factories as they sped past. He didn't much want to look at it, though, and kept his attention fixed on his leg, breathing as evenly as he could manage, and trying not to remind himself that he now had no idea how to find his way back to his own house, should he need to.

The place where the coach finally stopped looked scarcely different from where they had found Dwalin - perhaps a little more squalid, if anything. They climbed out, and Bilbo dug in his pocket for change for the driver, knowing full well that his companions were not likely to have much to spare. The cabbie caught his arm, though, and shook her head firmly.

"No, sir, no charge - not for the Healer!" She smiled sweetly at him, patting his hand. "You saved my da's life when he was caught in a slide in the mines. We'll never be able to repay you, but you'll not pay me a single coin."

The coach pulled away into the gloomy light of the afternoon, and Bilbo wondered briefly who it had been that he saved. So many Dwarves had come to him after accidents in the mine, and he thought he had managed to save more than he lost, though not by a wide margin. They faded into one another, after a while, all worn down by the work and the misery and the darkness of the city.

"Right," Fíli said, sounding nervous. He clapped his hands together too-heartily, and strode over to a low door with his shoulders pushed back. "Thorin's home."

Bilbo saw runes scratched into the door that, presumably, indicated Thorin's name, but he had never learned to read Dwarvish runes. So few Dwarves used them now, and they were generally used for Khuzdul words he never would have been allowed to learn, regardless. If there were medical texts by Dwarves of older days, they were closed books to Bilbo, and he had never bothered seeking them out.

Fíli raised a hand and knocked, looking like he would like to cringe backward, but he kept his place. Dwalin moved ponderously to his side, towering over the youngster with his arms folded across his chest, frowning threateningly at the dull stone. After a minute of no response, he thumped the stone hard with a great fist, making something of a racket.

The Dwarf who stumbled to open the door, growling something very much unlike a welcome, looked very little like the majestic figure Bilbo had seen in his flash of memory, if that was what it had been. He still had long, dark hair that was streaked with silver, but this time, it was greasy and matted, tied up in a rough knot behind his head. His beard was long and ragged, and the brilliant blue eyes that Bilbo had recalled were bloodshot and haunted, and looked on them without focusing properly. The smell of sweat and cheap alcohol was thick on him, and Bilbo knew at once that he must have been wrong - this was not the Dwarf to lead them. He backed away one pained step, then another, until he stepped directly on Bofur's foot and froze, staring unblinking at the Dwarf.

"Bilbo? What's the matter?" Bofur put a kind hand on his shoulder; he must have been able to feel the way Bilbo was shaking.

"He's not the one we want," Bilbo said, voice choked with rage.

"What do you mean? You said he was!" Fíli was by their side in a moment, looking confused and slightly frightened. "This is Thorin, I swear."

"I don't care what he's calling himself," Bilbo said evenly, trying to keep his words level. "That is the Dwarf who attacked me. I will have nothing to do with him."

Dwalin stared at him, then back to the Dwarf who was half-hanging on the doorframe to keep himself upright. "Thorin?" he asked, voice all uncertainty, and Thorin nodded heavily, eyes suspicious and unfriendly.

"I am. Now, leave."

A huge, muscled arm shot out and grabbed Thorin by the front of his unclean tunic, and Dwalin hauled him into the house without a word. Bofur and Fíli had both turned to stare at Bilbo, shock written on their honest faces.

"Are you sure it was him?" Fíli asked, looking unreasonably hopeful. "I'm sure many Dwarves look similar to you, and it's been a good many years since it happened…"

"You don't forget," Bilbo said coldly. "Not something like that. I tried to offer assistance when I saw he was ill, though I thought it was from the drink. He cursed me for a useless Halfling and a traitor - to what, I do not know - and threw me from him with all his might." His hands were shaking with rage, and he clasped them together tightly on the handle of his cane.

"We'll get to the bottom of this," Bofur told him, and there was no amusement in it. His face was set in grim lines. "Let us talk to him, Bilbo. Something has happened to him, but he is Fíli's uncle, and you knew his name. He must be important to us, somehow."

"You can speak to him as much as you would like," Bilbo spat. "I am going back to the house, before he destroys anything more of what little I have left."

Fíli darted in front of him, eyes pleading. "I am so very sorry for what he has done. As his kin, I will do whatever I can to make up for it. But, Bilbo, please - if there is anything of the Dwarf you remembered in him, we have to wake it up! We need him!"

"I have no need of such a Dwarf." Bilbo shook his head, amazed that they could even ask.

"Yes, you do!" Something seemed to snap in Fíli, and he stood tall, looking every inch a prince even in his normal clothes. "You took an Oath to Heal, and to the Dwarves of Erelin. We are sick and dying, all of us, and this Dwarf is the best chance we have to find our hope again! You must help him, to save us all."

Bilbo shook his head stubbornly, but Bofur squeezed his shoulder, and looked at him with great compassion. "The lad isn't wrong, Bilbo." He smiled a little, though it was deeply sad. "There are reasons for the things that happen, though we may not understand them."

He huffed angrily, but did not run. The last thing he wanted to do was enter that house and see the Dwarf who had caused him such pain - and yet, there was a memory etched inside his mind that he could not shake, of the very same Dwarf - but his eyes were kind and full of regret, and Bilbo had held his hand as he died. The memory of the sorrow he had felt was only a shadow, but he knew there must have been a reason for such grief. He had mourned Thorin Oakenshield once, and so there must have been some good to him. He did not know what good he could do, what power there might be in him to help these Dwarves find themselves again, but somehow he felt he could not refuse - not when there was a shadow on his heart that he knew had followed him for the rest of his life, once upon a time.

"Keep him away from me," Bilbo finally said. His fingers played over Balin's watch, reminding himself that the watch he had lost in the attack had been replaced with something entirely different, but perhaps stronger, perhaps better. He put his cane out and marched forward, entering Thorin's dark little cave of a room without a flinch.

To the back of the room, he could see Dwalin methodically ducking Thorin's head into a barrel of cold water over and over, leaving him dripping and stuttering, but at least marginally more sober. The place was little short of squalour, and Bilbo wrinkled his nose as he looked around. It was clearly the home of just one Dwarf, and not a particularly fastidious one, at that. Empty bottles were on every surface, and there was a single hard chair in front of a tiny table, both apparently carved from stone. The only concession to comfort in the entire dwelling space was a fur thrown on the floor in one corner, which looked like it must serve as his bed. It was certainly not where a king ought to live, Bilbo thought with disgust.

"You!" Thorin growled, his face twisted in drunken confusion and rage. "How can you be here?" He jabbed an angry finger at Bilbo, who stood his ground and kept his chin high. "You're not him. You can't be."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Bilbo said coolly. "I'm here because your nephew asked me to come and see you."

"No!" Thorin roared, pulling against Dwalin's restraining arms, but he held firm. "You can't be here! You are never here!"

Bilbo sighed and blinked up at Bofur, who was staring at Thorin in shock. "This is clearly going well. Can I leave now?"

"No, hang on," Fíli said, going over to stand just out of Thorin's reach, arms crossed over his chest. "What are you talking about, uncle?"

"I am no uncle of yours," Thorin snapped. "I have seen to that! Take your cursed Hobbit and leave me in peace!"

"Look, I think I rather deserve an explanation," Bilbo said, stalking forward a pace or two. "You said that before, when you were destroying my life - cursed me, and said I was a traitor. Why?"

Thorin stopped struggling, slumping heavily against Dwalin. He would not look at Bilbo. "You look very like someone I once knew," he said after a long while. The words were rough, as if torn from him against his will. "It is wrong, seeing his face in this cursed place."

"It's not my fault I'm here," Bilbo argued, but he was only half listening to his own words. Was it wise, he wondered, to try to explain to this angry, drunken Dwarf that they believed they were - what? Spirits of dead Dwarves, and a Hobbit, reborn again? The dead, come back to life? He had no words to explain the concept, since he barely understood it himself. "We just want to help," he said, though the sincerity of his tone might be questionable.

Thorin slumped down into his chair, and Dwalin let him, though he kept a hand fisted in Thorin's shirt to keep him from any sudden violence.

"There is no help," he muttered, staring bleakly at the empty bottles lined up in front of him. "Not for me, or my people. Not for any of the Dwarves." He looked up at Bilbo, eyes wild and lost. "You should leave while you can, Halfling. Erelin is no place for the living."

"Uncle," Fíli said firmly, coming to kneel at Thorin's side, looking up at him pleadingly. "Where is my brother?"

Thorin recoiled at that, staring down at Fíli in startled horror. "Who told you of him? What do you know?"

Fíli laughed bitterly, loss etched into his young face. "Now? Nothing. But I know that once he was as close to me as my own heart, and I have been looking for him my entire life. Where is Kíli, Uncle?"

Thorin ran both hands over his face, looking worn beyond belief. His hands were shaking, Bilbo noted with clinical detachment. "I had hoped you would never know to look for him. You were so young…"

"Then you do know!" Fíli brightened, and grabbed Thorin's hand, all excitement. "Tell me where he is!"

"Lost," Thorin said. His voice was empty, and Fíli froze. "I gave him into the care of another, and he was taken. He is gone, and I cannot find him."

Bilbo turned slowly to look at Bofur, who was gaping, open-mouthed, at Thorin. "Was that the babe? The child who was left on my doorstep?"

Thorin nodded slowly, desolation in every line of his face. "I thought if any could raise him to kindness, to peace, it would be you, old friend. I thought you might both be spared this time - that you might find peace in our waning days."

"I have never met you before!" Bofur protested, and it was Bilbo's turn to put a hand on his shoulder as he became distraught. "I didn't know where he came from, and when they took him -" he broke off, shaking his head; his eyes were bright with unshed tears. "I let Men take him - the last of the Dwarves. Mahal smite me, I did not know!"

Fíli had bowed his head low at the news, until it nearly touched his uncle's leg, and Bilbo watched as Thorin raised a hand as if to pat the boy's head, but hesitated, placing it back in his lap.

"And what of our family?" Fíli asked bitterly. "Are there others who may have sought him and saved him? Where is my mother, my father?"

"Your father was dead before Kíli was born," Thorin said quietly. "Some things are ever the same. Your mother -" he laughed joylessly. "She was angry with me when I told her you would be sent away to the Academy, but she understood. She never could forgive me for taking you both, though. She has not spoken to me since the day I took Kíli from her."

"But she is alive?" Fíli pressed. Thorin shrugged.

"She is not answerable to me, and there are none who could find her if she did not wish to be found. She vanished many years ago."

"You are no bearer of good tidings," Dwalin rumbled, patting Thorin's shoulder in a gesture that looked more punishing than friendly. "You have crippled our Healer and lost this Dwarf's brother. To what end?"

There was no escaping that questioning glare, and Bilbo almost thought Thorin shrank back at it. He certainly dropped his gaze, staring blankly at the table before him. "It doesn't matter anymore," he said quietly. "None of it. What hope is there, now? Better to let us all grow old and die in peace."

"Better than what?" Fíli asked, fury in his eyes. "How can this be better than anything? We are lost, and our people are dying!"

"We have been dying for a thousand years!" Thorin roared. He stood up, shaking away Dwalin's hand as if it were nothing. "A thousand years, we have lived under the curse of Mahal, and a thousand years we have died in vain! I have seen it with my own eyes, again and again!" He put a hand out to Fíli, who did not flinch away, and Thorin rested a hand on his shoulder, thumb rubbing at the dark bruising on the boy's neck which was half vanished, now. There came a furious tenderness in his eyes, like the love of a father for a son in peril. "For a thousand years, I have tried to lead you, to protect you, and I have failed every time." The anger seemed to drain from him, and he looked spent. "I am finished. You are my heir; if any are to do what I could not, it must be you."

"But-" Fíli began, and Thorin shook his head, looking weary beyond measure.

"Leave me," he said, sinking down in his seat, and reaching for a bottle. "I have failed once more – this one final time." He looked forward, avoiding all of their eyes, and took a drink, wincing at the contents. "There is no hope left for us now."

* * *

Hmm, I seemed doomed to write chapters that are each longer than the one before. Sorry about that! I'm not very good at consistency.

I am honestly so very excited, and grateful, for the enthusiasm you've shown for this story. I know it's rather severely weird, but knowing people want to read it just makes me unreasonably happy! Thank you so very much!


	7. The Tie that Binds

Bilbo watched the erstwhile King of the Dwarves, their last best hope, drown his sorrows in cheap alcohol, and felt his blood boil quietly. It wasn't that he was unsympathetic, even to the incredibly muddy picture of events that he was getting from Thorin; he couldn't imagine a thousand years of frustration and loss, if that number was anything like accurate. But how he could sit there, wrapped in his own misery like a coat of mail, when around him the Dwarves of Erelin were all suffering…

There was no place for him to sit in the squalid little room, but his leg was beginning to throb in time with the beat of his heart, and Bilbo knew he needed to rest it. He let his back hit the wall, and slid down slowly, managing the speed of his descent with his cane, until he could stretch his mangled leg out before him, taking the weight off it entirely. It was such a relief that there was a sudden pressure of tears in his eyes, and Bilbo had to blink quickly to hold them back.

Dwalin gave a low growl of frustration and snatched the bottle away from Thorin, who didn't even react. He sat like a statue, slumped over his table, and stared into space with a vacant expression.

"That's not good enough," Fíli said stiffly after a moment, standing to glare down at his uncle with arms crossed. "We need answers, and you are the only one who may be able to provide them! Tell us of this curse! What do you mean, a thousand years? And who has been doing the dying?" He stepped a little closer, anger flaring in his eyes. "And what do you know of those who took my brother?"

Thorin flapped an unsteady hand at him dismissively. "You are no more than a child. How could you understand? Come again in fifty years, and I will tell you what I know, and then you can lead them all to their deaths. I will not do it again."

Fíli shook his head, anger and despair and resignation seeming to flow off him in waves, and stalked away toward the door. Thorin gave a low laugh that might almost have been a sob, and Dwalin moved forward to take Fíli's place.

"You are drunk," he said slowly, looking Thorin up and down. "I do not think you speak as yourself now."

"You don't even remember me yet!" Thorin spat, glaring up at him with eyes that refused to focus.

"I remember I once followed you," Dwalin said quietly. He dropped to one knee before Thorin, staring up at him with a quiet bemusement. "I remember that you were more than you are now. And you are fortunate that I do remember, or out of loyalty to the Halfling, I would already have repaid you for the damage you did him."

Thorin looked up sharply at that, staring at Bilbo for a moment too long before looking away with what Bilbo was half certain was shame. He didn't care. He wanted nothing from this Dwarf - not so much as an apology.

"Forget the vengeance," Bilbo called to Dwalin, narrowing his eyes coldly at Thorin as he spoke. "It's not worth it on such as him." Thorin's head whipped around at that, fury building in his face, and Bilbo shrugged at him, unmoving. "For nearly a decade, I lived in fear of stepping outside my house because of him - and what do I find? He's no more a threat than any other wastrel." It wasn't quite the truth. There was still fear churning in Bilbo's stomach, and an anger that ran so deep he wasn't sure he existed without it any longer. But Thorin was so much less than he had thought, and an almost pathetic figure now.

"You," Thorin said, gesturing angrily at him. "You!" It was far from incisive commentary, but it seemed to be the best he could do. Bilbo squinted at him a bit, interested in a vaguely clinical fashion, and decided the effects of Dwalin's ice bath had worn off. Thorin was deep in the grip of the drink, and looked about to lose consciousness where he sat.

"My brother," Fíli insisted, turning back to stare at Thorin again. "Do you know anything of him?"

Thorin looked at him, eyes growing pensive and melancholy; Bilbo was not certain he was seeing the boy who stood in front of him at all. "I think," he said rather dreamily. "That you were hewn from the same stone. You never did like to be parted." He gave a heavy sigh. "I learned they took him to a foundling home. Far side of the city." His words slurred together, and his head drooped low. "It was for the children of Men, and they would not speak to me."

"It's somewhere to start!" Bofur declared. He lifted his chin, determination in every line of him. "Fíli, we should investigate."

"We need information!" Fíli protested, gesturing wildly at Thorin.

"We'll get nothing useful from him in this state," Bilbo said evenly. "Even if he felt inclined to help us."

"Leave him to me," Dwalin suggested. "I'll see he drinks no more, and perhaps in the morning he will be more able to speak his mind."

Bilbo looked at them both intently, then nodded his head slowly. "Bring him round in the morning - but keep him far from me." He started to try to heave himself upright, but Fíli was at his side in a moment, nearly lifting him up and setting him on his feet with such ease that Bilbo felt wrongfooted. It was easy to forget, sometimes, how very strong the Dwarves really were, when he was usually the one tending to their needs in moments of their greatest weakness. It was frightening, too - because he would never entirely forget how it had felt to be at Thorin's mercy.

He left without a backward glance, and was glad to put some distance between himself and the bedraggled Dwarf he had just seen. There was a pain building at the back of his head as two images seemed to war with each other - Thorin, hunched over himself, bent with care and grief and the weight of countless years; Thorin, strong and defiant, looking like a warrior of old as he faced something Bilbo could not see. They could not both fit in his head at once, and Bilbo was lost somewhere between the two.

Bilbo had to lean hard on his cane for the first few steps, as his leg was stiff and painful beyond what he could recall experiencing since the first year after the injury, and he peevishly blamed Thorin for that, though it made no sense. The extra exertions of the day were more than enough to explain away the pain.

"I'll find you a lift," Fíli promised, and darted off into the light of the setting sun, headed for higher traffic areas. Bofur shook his head at the lad.

"You forget what it's like, being so young," he said wryly. "We'll not see those days again."

"Or will we?" Bilbo asked, tilting his head to the side. "If we've done this all before, doesn't it make sense we'll do it again?"

"I don't know," Bofur said quietly. There was a stillness to him that was not quite natural, and Bilbo glanced up and to the side, taking in his somber expression. "I don't know how it all works, or what to expect." He looked up, past the dark rise of the hillocks that were the homes of the wretched of Erelin, and into the sky, now darkening with deep stormclouds. "The world is growing old, Bilbo, and I do not know how much time is left for us."

The words sent a cold chill up Bilbo's spine, and he remembered the desolation in Thorin's eyes when he talked about the end of hope. He had called it a final time.

Fíli rattled back into view, clinging to the side of a dark cab that was nearly the twin of the first they had taken, and he helped Bilbo aboard courteously, but his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. "Do you know anything about this foundling home?" he asked them anxiously, and Bofur patted his shoulder comfortingly.

"We'll know all we can soon enough, lad." He looked to Bilbo. "Will you be all right on your own until we're through?"

"I've been on my own for much longer than that," Bilbo said wryly, though he appreciated the thought. "I've got patients to see to this evening. I'll see you when you're back." He closed the door, leaning forward to direct the sullen cabbie back to his house, and was relieved beyond words when the Dwarf nodded acknowledgment, not needing further directions, since Bilbo hardly knew where he was.

He made it back to the house just in time for the evening rush of patients, and pressed entirely too much money into the cabbie's hand in a rush to get into his infirmary. The Dwarf didn't thank him, though, or offer any assistance in getting down - just waited until Bilbo had barely cleared the door before slamming it shut and cracking his whip over his ponies, sending the coach lumbering forward without a farewell. Bilbo shook his head, limping painfully to his door. He had never cared for the ugly words of Men, who claimed that Dwarves loved nothing but money - but there were some who seemed to prove the axiom.

The evening queue seemed to stretch on forever, and Bilbo moved at a slower pace than usual. His leg ached horribly with every step, and he realised how quickly he had been accustomed to having the occasional hand of help from one Dwarf or another. Everything seemed twice as far away as usual, and the Dwarves at the door eyed him impatiently, though they did not grumble. He patched up wounds and cleaned abrasions, offering what medications he could to the sick, and advising a few to come see him in the morning if their conditions had not improved. There was an old Dwarf in little more than rags who might need a foot amputated, though Bilbo felt the usual sick sensation creeping over him at the idea. A whispered consultation with a Dwarf in the last blush of her fading youth led to a grim diagnosis - her father had poisoned himself, unwilling to carry on with life in Erelin. It was a horrible thing, but Bilbo had seen it before, and he was glumly certain he would see it again. The Dwarves were not made for Erelin, though it had been made for them.

He was about to close the door after his last patient went hobbling away, but something stayed his hand, and he left it half-open as he set about putting things to right in the little infirmary. His mind had already wandered to the pantry, thinking on a good hot meal to settle his nerves and restore his spirit - but those happy musings were shattered by a ragged cough at the door.

It was the sailor boy again - but he wasn't alone. An elderly Dwarf was leaning heavily against him, clearly being half-carried by the boy. She was breathing heavily, eyes half-covered with dark, heavy lids. She scarcely seemed aware of where she was.

"You again!" Bilbo exclaimed, surprised more by the lad's company than by his presence. That hand surely needed seeing to again.

"Not for me," the lad panted. The old Dwarf didn't look too heavy, but they both looked utterly exhausted, and Bilbo wondered how far they'd had to come. "She's very ill. I think it's the plague."

Bilbo's heart dropped, and he hesitated. Should he let these two in, likely carrying infection and danger with them? But how could he turn them away? He made for the door, opening it wide and waving them in.

"Tell me what you know of the plague," he instructed, taking her other arm and helping the lad move her to the table, where he quickly tried to make her comfortable. "I haven't seen a case yet."

"I know," the boy said, backing away to the end of the table and then watching Bilbo with big, solemn dark eyes. "They've been told not to bring the sick to you. They say there's nothing to be done for them, and they're better off dying in their own beds."

"It is killing patients, then?" Bilbo asked, trying hard to think of a disease that might be striking the Dwarves so heavily. They were an uncommonly resilient folk, and most of the maladies of the world passed them by without a second thought. "I hadn't heard."

The boy nodded. "It takes them like this, quickly, and usually in the night. They go so quiet, but for the coughing, and that stops in the end." He looked at the old Dwarf, fingers reaching out to adjust the hem of her dress a little more neatly around her feet, and Bilbo wondered what she was to him. "It's peaceful, in the end. Like falling asleep, they say."

That was almost the worst of it, Bilbo thought, taking her temperature and pulse with practiced hands. Dwarves simply didn't lie down and die. It was against the natural order of things.

"Why did you bring her to me?" he asked, turning to his medicine cabinet and rifling through for herbs which might bring down the fever that burned through her body. "Do you know her? I can't promise you miracles, lad."

"She was kind to me once," he said quietly, watching Bilbo without moving. "I just thought you should be able to help her, if you could. Letting them die this way isn't right."

It was wrong, Bilbo thought absently as he put water on to boil, throwing the herbs in to steep, that this boy should be so quiet and contained. He was meant to be life and energy personified, never stopping, never quiet by choice. He didn't know what he meant by it.

"Is it very contagious?"

The boy nodded. "Seems to spread faster every day. No one knows how."

"At least you're immune," Bilbo grumbled, more as something to do than in real irritation. "I suppose I am as well. That's a blessing."

"What do you mean?" the lad asked, tipping his head to the side in one of the first displays of curiosity Bilbo had seen from him.

"From what I read, it only seems to affect Dwarves," Bilbo explained. The lad blinked at him. "So you won't catch it," Bilbo tried, looking for a sign of understanding. "Men don't get this illness, they say - not unless it changes it's nature."

"But I'm not a Man," the boy said, brow wrinkled in confusion. Bilbo stopped dead and looked at him, now taking his own turn to be confused. "At least, not all of one."

"You can't be a Dwarf!" Bilbo protested, gesturing vaguely at him. "You don't look at all like a Dwarf!"

He shrugged, though there was a hurt in his eyes that served to accuse Bilbo of a crime he hadn't known he was committing. "I'm not a Man. They said I was, but I grew too slowly."

"But you work on the ships!" Bilbo argued, though he couldn't say why. Something was very wrong, and he couldn't quite work out what it was - only that the world was not in the right shape. "Like the other boys."

"I've been working on the ships for more than forty years," he shot back, a flicker of life in his eyes now. "Look, I don't know what I am, and I don't much care. If I'm half a Dwarf, like they say, I might be able to get this illness too, mightn't I?"

Bilbo backed away to grab the herbal infusion, straining it into a cup as he watched the lad. A heavy certainty was beginning to settle around the back of his neck, and he cursed Thorin's scraps of information that had sent the others running in the wrong direction.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "It's possible. You need to do everything you can to avoid taking ill. How old are you?"

He shrugged again, watching Bilbo with eyes that suddenly seemed too old; he still looked more like a human boy than a young Dwarfling, even though Bilbo was reasonably certain now. "Sixty, seventy - who knows?" He smiled bitterly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "They're not much interested in those sorts of things, so long as you can do your work."

Bilbo set the medicine aside to cool, and took the old Dwarf's pulse again. It was a little slower now, and he felt a rush of despair. There was nothing he could do to help her, nor any of the others, with the limited supplies he had. He could treat the symptoms, but their bodies hardly seemed to be fighting the disease itself. He took a cautious step forward, putting his hand out toward the boy like he would offer an apple to a skittish pony.

"Let me see the hand?"

Dark eyes appraised him for a long moment, then he stepped forward, holding out the bandaged hand. Bilbo unwrapped it slowly, looking him over. Now that he was looking, it wasn't impossible that this boy was a Dwarf. He certainly didn't have the height of a Man, and there were features and expressions that made him look startlingly like Fíli, or even Thorin. It was a strange sensation indeed.

His hand was healthier this time, though still red and inflamed, and Bilbo let go as he limped across the room to the medicine cupboard, turning his head to call casually over his shoulder.

"Over here, Kíli, I want to see to that."

The boy started as if he'd been stung, eyes going wide and round as he stared at Bilbo in shock. His mouth fell open a little, and Bilbo wondered whether this was how he'd looked when flashes of memory had forced their way forward in his mind.

"What did you call me?" he whispered.

"Kíli," Bilbo said, turning to face him. "That's you, isn't it?"

"I remember," Kíli started, blinking slowly. "What do I remember? Was that my name?"

"I think so," Bilbo said gently, limping forward again, salve in hand. He took Kíli's hand gently, but the lad didn't seem to notice. He was buried deep in thought, trying to puzzle through memories that made no sense, and Bilbo was deeply sympathetic.

"Fíli," Kíli murmured, looking confused. "Shouldn't there be a Fíli?"

"There is. He's off looking for you now, but he'll be back."

"I don't understand?" Kíli said plaintively, and it was a question, not a statement. "There's never been anyone, but I remember not being alone!" He looked almost ready to panic, and Bilbo kept a grip on his wrist as he tended to the cut, desperate that he should not run off.

"We'll explain as best we can," Bilbo promised soothingly. He smiled as best he could, through the lump that was oddly in his throat all of a sudden. "You're in for a bit of a rough time, I'm afraid. There's things to come that will frighten you, and hurt you, but you won't be alone anymore."

Kíli blinked at him, eyes unfocused, and something like recognition slid across his face. "I knew you once," he whispered. "How is that possible?"

Bilbo huffed a little laugh, the sound coming more easily to him these days. "I wish I knew." He took clean bandages and rewrapped the wound, securing the edge carefully. "Your uncle says it's a curse, but I'm not sure we can trust a word from him."

"Uncle," Kíli muttered thoughtfully. "I don't recall an uncle."

"Just you wait, lad," Bilbo said tiredly, thinking of one more set of memories returning in scars and screams, and heaving a long sigh. "It'll take a while, but you'll remember. You'll remember all of it."

* * *

Yikes, OK, so sorry for the wait! Real life has been a bit mad the past few days, and yesterday I managed to burn my arm quite badly and couldn't bear to write because WOW did it hurt. I almost feel like it's retribution for what I've done to poor Bofur here! ;)

So this chapter was supposed to cover approximately four times this much material, but a.) it grew in the telling and b.) I didn't want to make you wait another two days to get it all at once, when it would then be a ridiculously long and involved chapter. Think of this as a chapter on it's own, or as part of a larger one, whichever makes you happiest! I'm hoping very much not to leave you waiting so long again. Thank you so much for your patience, loves!


	8. From Their Labours Rest

It took a concerted effort to keep Kíli from leaving, then, before the light faded. He drew away from Bilbo as soon as his hand was bandaged, putting himself in a position to break for the door, and looked distractedly back and forth from the window where the last muddy streaks of sunlight could be seen to the old Dwarf, sleeping on Bilbo's table.

"I should go," he muttered, running a hand over his dark hair, which was tied back in a sailor's messy queue. "We're meant to sail at dawn."

"You can't leave now," Bilbo insisted, though he knew he could not move fast enough to stop a hasty retreat. "Look, you're just starting to understand what's happening. You need to be here with the rest of us."

"I don't know any of you!" Kíli said, blinking steadily at him, with an air of unshakable logic. "I came to bring Dria for healing, that's all. This is the first long-distance voyage I've been able to convince to have me!"

"You don't mean you're really leaving Erelin?" Bilbo asked, rather stupidly. Dwarves didn't leave the city. Ships that went out beyond a day's travel from Erelin did not take Dwarves as passenger or crew, though shorter hauls were happy to make use of their strength for hauling in loads of fish. But if Kíli passed so easily as a Man, there was no reason he couldn't take a better job.

He nodded, looking appropriately enthusiastic for the first time. "I'm signed on as a hand for a cargo haul down to Pelargi. The pay is twice as good, and I've always wanted to see a bit of the world. They say United Gondor has cities that are open to everyone, to come and go as they please!" Kíli's eyes were wide at this prospect, almost unable to believe it. "Maybe there's a place there for me."

"There is a place for you here," Bilbo insisted, heart hammering a bit. If Kíli ran off now, and left the city, Bilbo was certain they would never find him again. Something deep inside told him that was an unacceptable outcome. He stepped closer, though he was careful not to crowd the lad, or scare him into running. "You said you don't want to be alone - but what else would you be, surrounded by Men for the rest of your life? Your family is here. Your brother will be back any minute!" He hoped that was true.

Kíli watched him uncertainly, eyes narrowed in thought, and Bilbo sent up a desperate plea to anyone who might be willing to hear a Hobbit. Behind him, the old Dwarf gave a deep, rattling breath, and both of them turned to look at her, startled by the sudden interruption.

Kíli's eyes softened, and he made his way to her side, patting one wrinkled old hand gently. "Are you going to be able to help her?"

"I don't know," Bilbo murmured. "I've given her what I can to manage the fever, and any pain there might be. Without knowing what's causing this, or how it's spread, there's little more I can do."

"They say, on the ships, that it's the hand of God," Kíli murmured thoughtfully, eyes fixed on the old lady. "That he has tired of the Dwarves, and is making the way for Men to have the world." He looked up at Bilbo, bitterness and knowledge too old for his years flashing in his eyes. "But don't they have it already? What do we have, but Erelin?"

Bilbo snorted, shaking his head. "I may not know what's causing it, but I'll tell you for certain that this is no act of any god." He looked skeptically at the lad. "I'm surprised at you. You don't seem much like a religious sort."

Kíli shook his head, a spark of mischief suddenly making him look decades younger. "Only when it gets me out of gutting fish. Most of the sailors believe that Ulmo is offended by the death of the creatures of the waters. Play it up, let them think you fear a watery grave, and they'll usually let you off cleaning the catch."

"I hadn't realised anyone still believed in that," Bilbo mused. The worship of Mahal that he had seen from Bofur and his fellows was different; they were looking for some good thing in the middle of a dark place, and clung to the faith and knowledge of a greener time. But belief in the Valar, more generally, had passed with the legends of Elves and magic that had so offended Bilbo as a young student.

"Sailors," Kíli said with a shrug, as though that explained it. "We're a superstitious lot, mostly. When there's nothing between you and a watery grave but a few lengths of half-rotting wood, you find what safety you can." It didn't escape Bilbo's notice that although his conversation was light now, Kíli was still at a safe distance, and keeping a clear eye on the fading light. He had to keep him there until Fíli returned. Bilbo gestured to the old Dwarf.

"It would help me to know a bit more about her. Any idea where she might have contracted the illness? Are her family ill?"

"I don't know." The answer was flat, and Bilbo looked up, surprised. "They're all getting sick on that side of the city. I don't even know if she has family."

"I thought you knew her?"

"I know her name is Dria, and she used to be a seamstress near the docks. She sewed things for us cheaper than anyone else would." Kíli's fingers fluttered near her sleeve, as though he wanted to put a hand on her arm, but didn't quite dare. "She was kind to me once, I told you. She let me stay with her for a few days after -" his face shuttered, growing closed and hard. "Well. Not many Dwarves would take in someone like me. I wanted to return the favour, but I expect I'm too late."

It was too late for a lot of things, Bilbo thought sadly. They were all too late.

"If she doesn't take a turn for the better, I don't expect she'll live through the night," Bilbo told Kíli regretfully. "But if you stay, she won't be alone - and it seems to me that that is quite a lot of thanks to offer."

Kíli looked torn, but finally nodded. "I suppose I can always leave early enough to make it to the dock by sunset." He gestured absently towards his own face. "They don't stop me for curfews. I reckon there must be some benefits to not looking like a proper Dwarf!" His tone was artificially bright, but Bilbo just nodded, relieved. There would be time for Fíli to explain what he could, and he would leave it up to the brothers to work out the best course to take. In the meantime, he had a patient to see to.

It was nearly full dark before Fíli returned, stumbling in without bothering to knock. "Nothing," he called gloomily, over the sounds of his coat hitting the ground with a dull thud. "They wouldn't even talk to us for hours, and then claimed they don't keep records on nameless foundlings."

"In here!" Bilbo called, turning up the light on a flickering gas lamp, and watching Kíli intently. He had gone stiff the moment the door had opened, stepping back from Dria's side to put his back carefully against a wall, watching the hallway with a dark, unblinking stare. Fíli's footsteps were heavy on the wooden floor, as though he was literally made heavier by his disappointment, and Bilbo slid around to block the now-closed door out of the house, just in case Kíli should spook and run.

Fíli came in slowly, taking in the unusual scene with a tired glance, and frowned at Bilbo. "I didn't know you held with overnight visitors."

"And what have you been, I'd like to know?" Bilbo shot back. He nodded at Dria. "Keep your distance. I'm afraid she's suffering from the plague, and I don't know how it's spread." Fíli nodded, looking a bit frightened, and glanced around again, his eyes stopping on Kíli. He froze, tilting his head to one side and staring at Kíli intently. Bilbo kept his silence.

"Who are you?" Fíli asked after a moment, voice strangled in his throat. His eyes were narrowed into slits, watching Kíli like a cat would stare at a mouse.

Kíli blinked at him, unmoving. "You look like you want to tell me."

Fíli shook his head, as though trying to shake water out of his ears. "You're him, aren't you? You're Kíli?"

"Apparently," Kíli said flatly. His arms were pressed tightly around his chest, and he made no move toward Fíli. "That's what I almost remember. Are you Fíli?"

"You don't remember me?" Fíli asked, sounding half relieved and half disappointed.

"Just a name," Kíli muttered. He looked longingly at the door, clearly wanting to be gone.

Fíli moved forward, a grin spreading across his face. "This is incredible! I went looking for you, and here you are! Where have you been?"

"Around." Kíli glanced at Bilbo, a plea written clearly across his face. "I didn't know anyone was looking."

"I don't remember everything yet," Fíli said quickly, eyes bright. "I didn't even remember what you looked like, or if this is even what we did look like, before. I suppose we'll get to remember together!" He came forward more, putting his hands out to grab Kíli's shoulders in the Dwarvish manner that Bilbo had seen before, and Kíli stepped aside quickly, shaking his head.

"I'm going to Gondor," he protested, breathing a little too rapidly. "I have a ship, and a chance to get out of here. I don't know you!"

Fíli's face fell in sudden sharp disappointment, and Bilbo winced for him. "But we're family!" Fíli protested, stretching one hand out toward Kíli.

"I don't have a family," Kíli said coolly, watching him with detachment. "I don't know what's happening to me, or to you, and I'm not interested in knowing. I'm happier on my own, thank you."

But Bilbo remembered the way he had looked toward the light and laughter when he had visited before, and knew that was a lie.

"You can't just leave!" Fíli protested. "I've been looking for you as long as I can remember, even when I didn't know what it was I was looking for! You can't just turn up and then go away again!" He shook his head, eyes bright and desperate in the low light. "Please. Haven't you ever thought there was something wrong - something missing? I can't be the only one!"

"I expect it's a bit easier to notice one thing missing when you've got everything else," Kíli said quietly, eying Fíli's fine clothing and neatly braided hair meaningfully.

They made for a sharp contrast, the pair of them, in more than just their colouring. Where Kíli's clothes were little more than neatly-kept rags, Fíli's almost looked like the things worn by the officials who ran Erelin in company with Men. Fíli stood tall and confident, shoulders broad and straight, but Kíli was curled into himself, light on his feet and ready to dash away at any moment. Even their hands showed the differences their lives had offered - Kíli's wounded and calloused, where Fíli's were ink-stained and more used to the work of turning pages than hauling ropes.

"Please," Fíli repeated. He put his hands down, not demanding anything any longer, but the sadness in his eyes pierced Bilbo to the heart. "Don't make me lose you again so soon."

Kíli nodded tightly at Dria, whose breathing had grown a bit slower and shallower. "I'm here to stay with her until she passes." But he hesitated, and a bit of the longing that Bilbo had seen so keenly before crept back into his eyes. He didn't want to be alone, Bilbo knew. "I suppose we could talk for a while, though," he offered, and a tiny smile tugged at one side of his face as Fíli let out a roar of delight.

Bilbo left them to it, mostly. He went back to his books and texts, searching furiously for any hint of a disease like the plague they were seeing, but at every turn, his search was fruitless. Dwarves simply did not die of such things. He spent a few hours alternating studying with trudging into the infirmary to check Dria's temperature and breathing, occasionally brewing more herbal remedies and doing his best to get her to swallow them. He watched the brothers with a curious eye as he passed back and forth, doing his best to appear uninterested.

It was not the miraculous reunion of lost souls that he suspected Fíli had expected. At first, Kíli kept his distance, arms tucked close about him and eyes wary, answering Fíli's questions in brief, careful sentences that gave away nothing personal. Fíli was too exuberant, too invested in convincing Kíli that they were truly brothers, and too desperate to truly seem as cheerful as he was acting. But as the hours passed, Bilbo watched quietly as they drew together, eventually taking seats side by side next to Dria's bed and settling into a quiet rhythm. Kíli relaxed, letting his guard down enough to occasionally smile or laugh, and Fíli tamped down the jagged edges of neediness and just talked. By the time that Bilbo came around, just before getting ready for bed, he was not quite surprised to find that Kíli was curled up on the floor in front of the warm pipes, snoring quietly, while Fíli watched him pensively.

"He'll dream tonight, won't he?" Fíli asked Bilbo in a whisper, and Bilbo shrugged.

"You're the one having these dreams, not I. It seems likely, though."

"I don't dream of dying anymore," Fíli confided. "Five times, I did, with five different deaths. Now-" he nodded vaguely towards Kíli. "I think I'm dreaming of lives."

"That's an improvement," Bilbo said approvingly - but Fíli just shook his head, and his eyes were haunted.

Bilbo did not know how to answer that, so he checked on Dria one last time, shaking his head as he took her pulse. She would pass in her sleep, undisturbed by the fears and worries of those around her. There was nothing he could do.

He stumbled to bed, eyes bleary, and collapsed onto it with little care for the pain in his leg. He had half forgotten it in the excitement of finding Kíli, but the injury was clearly not so forgiving. It was more than an hour before dawn when he woke to such severe, stabbing pains in the old wound that he could barely limp back to the infirmary, leaning heavily on the cane as he went. He swallowed all of the remedies he had ever found effective, collapsing in the now-vacant chair by Dria's head with a shuddering exhale of pain, and tried to breathe through it.

The two young Dwarves were both asleep now, and Bilbo looked at them with an unfamiliar fondness. They were curled up on the ground, a few feet separating them from one another, but they had gravitated toward each other in sleep. Fíli had flung an arm out toward Kíli, palm up and hand open, and Kíli had moved from his previous position, coming a great deal closer. They breathed in unison, two gentle snores mingling in the quiet of the room, and Bilbo could not distinguish them.

But there was a third, rasping breath as well, and that was his lookout. He leaned forward to check on the old Dwarf, who was struggling for each breath now, though she slept on, and her face looked peaceful. With no way to help her, Bilbo shook his head, and took her hand. It was cold.

He did not know how the Dwarves faced death when they knew it was coming. Dwarves had died in his home several times before, but it had always been a sudden, terrifying thing - not this peaceful descent. Bilbo did not know if they prayed, or wept, or left the dying alone in peace. He held her hand and waited with her, and bowed his head when the last breath came. Bofur would probably say that she had gone to rest with her ancestors, he knew, though it was a matter of some confusion to him as to how that was meant to work. Dwarves did not lightly share their secrets, and Bilbo didn't hold with mysticism - but he hoped, in whatever form it might be found, that this one old Dwarf had found a measure of peace in the end.

Across the room, Kíli drew in a quick, sharp breath, and his arms flew up to cover his head as his body suddenly shook. Bilbo closed his eyes in resignation, knowing what was coming. It was only a moment before Kíli started shaking, giving a low, horrible cry of pain and loss that might have been dragged from the depths of his being, and it built into a scream. Fíli was awake in a moment, shaking off sleep as he scrambled across the floor to his brother. He grabbed Kíli's shoulders and shook him roughly.

"Hey! Wake up! It'll get better, I swear to you it will, but you've got to shake it off. Come on!"

Kíli came awake with a gasp, swallowing the end of the scream as his eyes snapped open, and he stared, wild-eyed, at Fíli.

"That's it," Fíli said soothingly, patting his shoulder. "It's horrible, I know - but it's over now! Put it out of your mind."

Kíli lifted his hands to his face, using his arms to push Fíli's hands off his shoulders, and Bilbo could see the shivers that ran through him. He took a few deep breaths, putting himself together, and then dropped his hands to his lap, looking intently at Fíli.

"You died," he said, sounding mildly quizzical. "And so did I. I remember it."

"I know," Fíli whispered, looking ill. "I'm sorry. Forget it as fast as you can. It's the only way."

"No!" Kíli looked startled. "There was a sword in your heart. I remember it! And you looked at me when you died, and you closed your eyes - just like we were going to sleep, just like always." He breathed deeply and winced, and put a hand to his ribs. "And then they shot me. Arrows in my back, in my side, but it didn't hurt as much as I thought it would."

Fíli shook his head, eyes too bright. "I don't want to hear it," he insisted. "I want to remember who we were, not how we were killed."

"It's all one," Kíli told him gently. There was a clear-eyed maturity to him that Bilbo would not have expected, and for a moment, it almost seemed like he was the older brother, looking after the younger. Bilbo thought, quietly, that he had not always been so wise. "We died because of who we were, and it is part of us." He put a hand out carefully, fingertips brushing against a golden braid, then took his hand back thoughtfully.

"You believe me now?" Fíli asked, voice hushed and hopeful, and Kíli smiled sadly at him. It was answer enough.

* * *

I hope it's not a disappointment that the lads are not immediately the people we once knew them to be. A lot of water has passed under the bridge, and they have suffered a great deal more than the very young Dwarves who once accompanied Bilbo on a reckless journey could ever have imagined. It changes a person.

That said (and I'm sure this speaks more to my lack of understanding of a proper chapter structure), we're still only about halfway through the material I thought the LAST chapter would cover! I don't want to rush this, though, and I'm so grateful to you all for letting me take the time to tell the story properly.


	9. No Other Sunshine

When the sun rose on Erelin, it had to fight its way through the constant haze of smoke to reach weak tendrils of light down to the houses below. Bilbo was upstairs, smoking, and thinking.

It had been worth the effort to haul his crippled leg up the several flights of stairs, even knowing that he would have to climb back down again. He could see more from there, and the air was a trifle fresher - but the main draw was the solitude. There was a tension in the air downstairs, as Fíli and Kíli moved cautiously around one another, eyes always fixed on the brother they did not know. Kíli had given up talking about leaving, but he was tense and quietly distant, keeping Fíli's friendly overtures at arm's length. Fíli was boiling over with enthusiasm and undirected energy, with nowhere to spend it. It was, frankly, rather exhausting to watch them both, and he had retreated for a few moments of quiet contemplation before his visitors arrived for the morning.

The sun shone dimly down on the city, doing little to rid the close streets of the damp muskiness that pervaded every corner. Bilbo blew out a neat ring of smoke, looking down at the city with unfocused eyes. He would have to send round for the Delvers, who would see to the burial of the old Dwarf's body now that she had passed away. He had no idea what constituted Dwarvish burial practices; he had no need to know. They looked after their own, in the end, and it was not his place to pry.

A grim, horrible part of Bilbo started to wonder what would be done as the numbers of the dead and dying rose. Would there be enough Delvers left to manage the dead? He had read of plagues before, in the cities of Men - of bodies stacked like cordwood, or burned, or thrown into mass graves to be forgotten. He thought uneasily of the stacks of masks and vials of medicine in his cupboards, and wondered what the Governance knew of the plague that he did not. Bilbo bit down on the stem of his pipe, trying to decide. He could go in search of answers, venturing out into the city again, or he could remain where he knew the Dwarves would be able to find him in their suffering. Neither option seemed entirely attractive.

The Governance had sent him supplies and medication, worse than useless though it might have been, and yet Kíli said the Dwarves were directed not to bring the sick to him for help. It made no sense. Bilbo puffed on the pipe a few times, absentmindedly savouring the quality of the leaf, and tried to work it out. What reason stood behind it? The most cynical part of him suggested, though very quietly, that it was nothing more than a show of caring, with an eye to Bilbo's letters home to the Shire. Should he accuse them of undermining the health of the Dwarves, the Took might very well reduce the numbers of Healers sent to the cities of Men. Then again, perhaps it was just rumours among the lower levels of Dwarvish society that had them convinced the authorities of the city wished them kept away from the Healer.

He blew out a long, slow breath, watching the smoke drift away and mingle with the dull haze of the air outside. A plague, and the superstitions of Dwarves, would have been enough to keep him busy. Now, he also had his hands full of troubled Dwarves who seemed to be rediscovering past lives they had lived, and whose hopes were somehow dependent on Bilbo, strange as it seemed. And to top it off, his own mind was troubled by vague recollections he could not quite catch hold of, and which he had no reasons to believe were anything but the troubled musings of an over-tired mind - and yet, he did believe them. He was not dreaming in the way of the Dwarves, but there was no doubt in his mind that he knew them. Whatever had brought them to their deaths, and then to his home, he had been a part of it, once, and was intimately tied to their work and worries, though he could not remember why.

Irritated, he hauled himself to his feet and banged the window shut, stomping down the stairs with more force than was necessary. Once, he had wanted nothing more from life than a quiet pipe and some solitude. Once, he had thought that possible.

Fíli was pacing downstairs, marking a path back and forth from kitchen to infirmary, and looked up gratefully when Bilbo appeared. "I was beginning to think you had snuck away over the roofs!"

Bilbo rolled his eyes expressively, gesturing to his leg, and pushed Fíli aside gently so he could go through to the kitchen and pour a mug of tea. "That's not likely. Where's your brother?"

Fíli almost glowed at that, grinning happily and darting ahead to pull a chair out for Bilbo. "Still here. He's sitting with the old lady."

"Right," Bilbo said. He limped over to his writing desk and took up pen and paper, dashing off a quick note and sealing it with the seldom-used official stamp of the Healer. "I'll need you to take this along to the Delvers. We must see her body taken care of."

Fíli nodded solemn agreement and took the envelope from Bilbo, but hesitated on the brink of the door, and spoke in a hushed tone. "I don't think it will be a problem, but please don't let Kíli leave? I don't want to lose him again." His shoulders were tense at the thought, and Bilbo waved him off impatiently, but couldn't suppress a wave of sympathy.

"Yes, yes - now be off with you, before we find ourselves the centre of a murder investigation," Bilbo said briskly, and Fíli darted away with the bewildering energy of the young. Bilbo leaned into the passage to check on Kíli, who was sitting pensively by Dria's side, arms wrapped around his knees as he considered the body of the old Dwarf. Bilbo withdrew, not wanting to intrude, and fixed himself a quiet little breakfast, trying to steel himself for the day ahead. It was likely to be the wildest day yet.

The Delvers could not be faulted for their promptness. They returned straightaway with Fíli, and covered Dria's face respectfully with a carefully embroidered cloth, bearing her away in a silence so deep that Bilbo would not use words to threaten it. Kíli didn't move as they worked, keeping his self-contained silence, but watching every movement with dark eyes.

There were sounds outside the door, and Bilbo sighed, shaking off the melancholy that had fallen over him at the ceremonial removal of his latest patient. "Looks like I'm in demand again," he said dryly. "Help if you like, or clear out, please. There's more than enough Dwarves outside the door to suit me." Kíli nodded silently and left, and Fíli followed after him anxiously, as if afraid that his brother would vanish again if he let him out of sight.

Bilbo looked carefully at each of his patients as he worked, studying them for any signs of the plague, but it was hard to distinguish. The Dwarves were all tired, worn down by years of hard labour and unkind treatment, and most were not as well fed or clothed as they ought to be. Fevers were not uncommon, particularly in those who had suffered injuries they hadn't bothered to bring to him for treatments. Coughing, sadly, was nearly epidemic, from the filth in the air. With no other symptoms to look for, Bilbo was at a loss to identify those who were potentially becoming ill.

He talked to them all, though, looking for information - and it was a strange departure for Bilbo, who usually did his best for the Dwarves without engaging in idle chatter. Those who revealed they lived or worked near the docs were given the masks the Governance had sent Bilbo, and he warned them to keep their distance from the sick wherever possible. It felt like putting a plaster on a mortal wound, but there was nothing else he could do without more information. He sighed to himself, realising it meant he would likely have to go to the Governance for more information, much as he hated the thought.

He sent the last of his patients away with a stack of masks and let the door swing closed, though it cut off a little bit of natural light from outside. He took his cane in one hand, moving slowly along the passageway as he stretched muscles made tight by the rush of concentrated activity. The smell of eggs and bacon greeted him, and he sniffed appreciatively, moving a bit faster.

"Come on, then!" Fíli said with a laugh, sweeping a ridiculous bow and gesturing Bilbo toward the table. "My dear brother has consented to make us all a bite to eat!"

Bilbo chuckled dryly and sat, letting the cane drop to rest against his chair. "And why are we not blessed with your own culinary endeavours?"

Kíli snorted quietly. "Him? Look how posh he is! I don't reckon he's ever cooked a day in his life!"

Fíli shrugged good-naturedly, but there was a hint of hurt in his eyes. Kíli's jibe had sounded good-natured, if somewhat guarded, to Bilbo, but it was clear that Fíli took it personally. Bilbo wondered oddly whether Fíli had ever been teased before, growing up in such a constrained, formal environment with so few other children. Kíli, on the other hand, was clearly used to the sharp, often cruel banter of the ships and docks - had more than likely been a target of it many times, in fact. It was one more thing they would have to learn and unlearn together. He put a hand to his head as a sudden image sprang to mind of two heads, one bright and one dark, bent together in shared laughter.

Fíli dropped a plate of hot food in front of him, and Bilbo shook away the strange thought. It probably was a memory of some sort, he thought dully, but he had no context for it. He got ideas and hints of memories, but he had no way to stitch them together into something meaningful. At least if he was dreaming the terrible dreams the Dwarves seemed to share, he might have some chance of making sense of what he was trying to remember.

The food was hot and plentiful, and Bilbo ate in a pleasant enough silence. Fíli was overly appreciative in his eating, and Kíli watched him with a wary sort of amusement, putting his food away quickly and quietly, as though not sure when he would see more. They had just got to the point of pushing back their plates and sighing in contentment when a pounding came at the door, and Bilbo started violently.

"I'll get it!" Fíli declared, shooting up and dashing to the door before Bilbo could object. Kíli got up too, but crept around the table to stand near Bilbo, effectively putting the whole solid bulk of the table between them and the unexpected visitors. Fíli flung the door open, and Bilbo saw his shoulders slump for a second before he straightened mechanically and stepped back. "Look who's walking on his own now," he said, with a light, flippant attitude that earned him a growl from someone on the other side.

Bilbo stood up and grabbed his cane, moving around until he could see that it was Dwalin and Thorin on the doorstep, the latter looking decidedly ill, but no longer inebriated. His eyes were red and bloodshot, and his face had the pallor of a Dwarf who had not often seen the sun, but Dwalin had clearly made him change his clothing and remove the worst knots from his hair. He still looked very far from a king, but at least now he did not look so much like a beggar. Bilbo's hand tightened angrily on the handle of his cane, and he nodded sharply. "Good to see you, Dwalin. Please, come in." He carefully omitted any word to Thorin, but of course Dwalin pushed the ragged Dwarf ahead of him, until the group of them seemed to quite fill Bilbo's kitchen.

"Are you going to be bruising or maiming anyone today?" Fíli asked with bitter politeness, the words so cold they stung. Thorin glanced up at him sharply, anger flaring in his red-rimmed eyes, and then dying just as quickly as he took in the still livid colours of the black eye he had given his nephew.

"No," he said quietly, looking away. "I was not myself. I will lay no hand on you, or any other." Dwalin gave a grunt of approval, and flung himself down at the table, helping himself to Fíli's unattended mug of tea.

"Who's this, then?" he muttered, nodding his great bald head sharply toward Kíli.

"He's-" Fíli began, glancing at Kíli, and then hesitated. Kíli did nothing so obvious as shake his head, but there was a wideness to his eyes, and a twitch of his lips, and Fíli gave a tiny nod. "He's a friend of one of Bilbo's patients."

Of course, Bilbo thought with a tired shake of his head. Of course the lad would be hesitant to give away his new-found identity, when he was not yet sure of it, and when faced with two rather threatening looking Dwarves. The truth would out, in due time. He sat down again, and Fíli dragged over another chair, placing himself between Bilbo's side of the table and Thorin's - who Bilbo had yet to so much as glance at openly. He would not give Thorin the satisfaction of seeing him quiver, nor of seeing his anger. After a hesitant moment, Kíli came over to join them, and they all waited expectantly.

"Well?" Fíli said after a minute. "What can you tell us, now that you are sober? Explain this, please, before we all run mad!"

Thorin glanced at Kíli, frowning in concentrated disapproval. "Our business is not for the ears of Men."

"Your business," Bilbo said sharply, "while it is being conducted in my home, is for the ears of whomever I choose to allow to listen. The lad is far more welcome here than yourself, Thorin Oakenshield." He fixed Thorin with a cold stare, pleased with himself for not saying more. Thorin looked deeply displeased, but wilted after a moment, seemingly having no strength to fight.

"What would you have me say? You've clearly worked it out for yourself." He shrugged, even that simple movement seemingly exhausting. "We died, and then we came back - and we did it again and again."

"Five times?" Fíli pressed, leaning forward eagerly. "I've remembered five different - well, deaths, I suppose." He frowned at the thought, and Bilbo saw Kíli give a little shiver at the idea. Thorin nodded slowly.

"Five times, Mahal be damned."

"I recall only three," Dwalin rumbled.

"They'll come back to you," Thorin said despondently. "One by one, and then the memories to follow. They come faster as you begin to remember, and as more of the company are brought together."

"So why do you remember, and we do not?" Fíli asked, looking puzzled. "I thought maybe we were meant to remember with age, but you're not that much younger than Uncle Thorin." He nodded to Dwalin as he spoke.

"I always remember," Thorin rasped, rubbing at his eyes with one hand. "All of it, for a thousand years. I have known from the earliest times of my life, every time, and I have spent my lives finding you all. Five times, I brought us together to do the impossible, and five times I have failed." His voice cracked under the weight of that desolation, and Bilbo struggled not to let himself feel sorry. He cleared his throat meaningfully.

"And what of me?" he asked, but then felt it wasn't a very clearly worded question. "We met nine years ago, and you cursed me, and flung me from a window. Why?"

Thorin looked up at him, and there was a sudden flicker of regret in his eyes that Bilbo did not want to see. He did not want Thorin's apologies. "Because it was wrong," he said in a choked whisper. "You were never meant to be here, trapped, with us."

"So I haven't been with you all this thousand years?" Bilbo asked, trying to piece together the bits of information. "Where have I been?"

"We never knew," Thorin said quietly. "You were with us the first time - and ask me no more of it. I will not speak of that time to anyone; you must remember alone." He fixed Bilbo with a clear, unblinking gaze. "We looked for you again and again, and you were not to be found. We thought you were the blessed one, the one who had found peace."

"So it was jealousy?" Bilbo demanded, feeling heat rush into the tips of his ears. Thorin shook his head.

"No. When you saw me, I was not in my own mind. To see you in this forsaken place, when we thought you safe-" he shook his head. "And it sometimes becomes muddled in my head, after all this time. I saw you, and I thought you had betrayed me. You were not to blame."

"No, I never thought I was," Bilbo snapped. He took a deep breath, then another, trying to calm himself. "So why am I here now? Why is it different this time?"

Thorin shook his head wearily. "I cannot say. Perhaps to see an end to it with us."

"That's not a particularly hopeful sentiment," a new voice said, and Bilbo turned quickly to see Bofur standing behind him, arms folded casually as he leaned against the doorframe. "Sorry, let myself in," he said offhandedly. "Hope you don't mind if I join the conversation." Bilbo obligingly shuffled his chair, moving much closer to Kíli, who had also shifted around closer to Fíli.

"Hope is worse than useless to us," Thorin spat, glowering darkly at Bofur. "What hope has there ever been? Every hope has led us to disaster!"

"Doesn't mean it doesn't exist," Bofur said easily. "Look around. A fortnight ago, we were alone. Now we are drawing together, and that is hope itself!"

"No." Thorin's voice was flat and dull. "That is our doom, and has ever been. I swore it would be different this time. I let you all go." He stared out the window with its wavery glass, looking out at the street. "We are better to live and die alone here than to take up arms again."

"Is that why you sent me away?" Fíli sounded incredibly young, and Bilbo saw the mask of cool indifference the lad usually wore slip a bit, as Kíli glanced sharply at him. "Why you took me from my mother?"

"You were better off there," Thorin protested, looking rather trapped. "I provided you with the best education any Dwarf could have! Of course you would be better off there than with us!" It sounded like a well-rehearsed defense.

Fíli laughed sharply and shook his head, moving a fraction further away from Thorin, closer to Kíli. "I won't thank you for it."

Thorin slammed a hand down on the table, and Bilbo and Kíli jumped sharply. "I have never asked for thanks!" he roared. "I have tried to keep us together, and it has failed! I have tried to lead us home, and it has failed! We are at the end of all things, and I can do no more!"

"Why is it the end?" Kíli asked quietly, not looking up from the surface of the table.

"There are no more Dwarves," Thorin said wearily. "We have been reborn again and again, but always in the same manner, to Dwarves and of Dwarves. When we die this time, there will be no more chances."

"For what?" Dwalin asked, voice a low rumble. "What is the purpose of all of this, Thorin?"

"I don't know," Thorin said tightly. He looked away. "When I died, I thought it was over. I had lived my time, and I knew I would go to rest with my fathers and my kin, until the remaking of the world. It was not such a bad thing, in the end, to die with such a certainty." He frowned, eyes lost in a distant past. "But then I woke again, and I remembered everything, though a hundred years of the world had passed. I was no more than a child. I sought you all as soon as I grew old enough, and the company was put together and remembered." He shook his head, fingers wandering absently through the long, ragged strands of his dark beard. "But we were too young and foolish, and unprepared. I led us all to our deaths."

"Where?" Dwalin wondered, rubbing absently at a shoulder, and Bilbo noticed they were all seemingly fingering their scars, wondering which one had been earned in such a time. "Where would you lead us?"

"To the same place we were always meant to go," Thorin murmured sadly. "To Erebor."

"Erebor? As in the mysterious legendary mountain where Dwarves live free?" Bofur asked skeptically.

"It was our home!" Thorin growled, angry lines carved into his tired face. "I thought that must be our doom - to return there and set things right." He glanced at Fíli, looking shamefaced. "You and your brother were little more than infants, that time. We were too hasty, but it was a time of great peace after great evil, and we thought it would be simple. It seemed a blessing - a second chance to make things right."

"They did not want us," Fíli said slowly, eyes nearly shut in concentration. "They said we were mad?"

"Yes," Thorin growled. His hands formed into huge fists on the table. "I went to the representative of the King - the descendant of the man who took my throne - and told him our story. They laughed at us for madmen, and when we would not leave, they cursed us as enemies and drove us away. It was winter, then." He shivered, and around the table, four other Dwarves shook in unison, as though memory had a physical affect. "We were driven away in the cold, to the very shores of the lake - but it was not the shore, after all."

"We fell into icy water," Bofur said suddenly, eyes wide in horrified remembrance. "They pushed us to the ice, and it broke, and we were drowned." He looked up at Thorin, disbelieving. "Even the children?"

"Yes," Fíli murmured, arms coming up to wrap around his chest for warmth. Kíli eyed him, then scooted a bit closer, until their shoulders touched.

"Your own people?" Bilbo asked, horrified.

"It's not a particularly convincing story," Thorin said bitterly. "We learned from that, though, and never went again until we were ready." He narrowed his eyes in age-old fury. "And we never looked for help from outsiders again."

"So we've been trying to go back to this same place, then - this Erebor?" Dwalin asked, shaking his head. "It makes no sense, Thorin! Why have we returned? If we were given a second chance, then clearly we wasted it."

"Erebor is our home," Thorin hissed, anger and hatred bubbling up through his words. "For a thousand years it has sat in the hands of thieves and murderers, and of their descendants. I would have taken it back and given us a home, and then perhaps we would have found peace!"

"Not from war," Bofur said gently, shaking his head. "Never from war. We find our peace in one another, and in what we have been given."

Thorin glared at him, eyes threatening. "You're a man of faith now, Bofur? That's something new. Tell me of your god, old friend. Tell me why he has cursed us so." The words were vicious, spat from his mouth with malice and rage.

"Why must it be a curse?" Bofur asked reasonably. "We are told that Durin returned to his people time and again, and it was grace to them. Mahal may have given us a gift."

Fíli gave a groan and buried his head in his hands. "Please, no more! Mahal is a tale for children!"

Kíli looked at him curiously. "What is Mahal?"

Bofur peered around Bilbo to glance at Kíli, who had escaped his notice before. "You'll not have heard much of Mahal, lad," he said dismissively. "He is for the Dwarves, and nothing to do with Men."

"It's a legend!" Fíli said angrily, sitting up. "They say Mahal created the Fathers of the Dwarves from stone, and gave them life, because he wanted children of his own to teach! It's no more real than all the stories that go with it - of Elves and magic and the rest."

Bofur nodded, but didn't look bothered by Fíli's outrage. "Aye, it's a story - but it's a good one!" He smiled winningly at them. "And it's as likely a story as any other. Those of us who hold to the old ways find it a comfort."

"Like Ulmo, on the seas," Kíli murmured, nodding understanding.

Bofur looked at Thorin. "How many of us are there in this Company?"

"Thirteen," Thorin said glumly. "Myself and my nephews, Dwalin and his brother, you with your own brother and cousin, and then five more who were my kin, if distantly."

Dwalin gave a low whistle, and the others shook their heads despairingly. Bilbo glanced around at them in confusion.

"What am I missing?" he asked, annoyed.

"Thirteen," Bofur said sadly. "It's an unlucky number indeed! To take thirteen on a venture is said to guarantee it's failure."

Bilbo blinked, counting quickly in his head, and then looked directly at Thorin. "Fourteen," he said. "I'm fourteen, aren't I?"

"It was one of the reasons you came along," he admitted grudgingly, then blinked a few times, clearly processing the information. "Fourteen again," he mused quietly. "Now that you are here, we might be fourteen."

"Are we seriously thinking of judging all of this on the merits of lucky numbers?" Fíli asked incredulously, glancing around the table.

"Not luck, lad," Bofur told him slowly, a smile spreading over his face that seemed to light the room. "We're talking about a gift. If this is our last chance, then it seems Mahal has seen fit to give us our best chance." He clapped a hand on Bilbo's shoulder, shaking it encouragingly. "It's a sign. Hope is not lost!"

* * *

OK, wow, I'm getting rather dreadful about updating in a timely fashion. Sorry, guys, really and truly! It's been a bad few days on the personal side of things, but I feel like things are on the upswing now, and hopefully I'll be able to get back to a much more regular posting schedule. Thank you for your patience!


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